Confessions of a Duchess

Confessions of a Duchess Nicola Cornick When a feudal law is invoked requiring all unmarried ladies to wed or surrender half their wealth, the quiet village of Fortune’s Folly becomes England’s greatest Marriage Market.Young, handsome and scandalously tempting, Dexter suspects duchess Laura has a hidden motive for resisting his charms…and he intends to discover it, by any means necessary. A Brief Guide to Fortune’s Folly The History and Antiquities of North Yorkshire by Lady Melicent Beaumont Fortune’s Folly, population eight hundred and fifty-six, is a large village in north Yorkshire some twelve miles from the market town of Skipton. The village was originally called Fort-tun from the Old English, meaning a fort built on the site of an earlier farm. It is referred to as Fortune in a document from 1232 and has been known by that name ever since. The word Folly, from the Old French fol, meaning a fool, was added in 1455 when George Fortune, the lord of the manor, tried to repel a Lancastrian attack during the Wars of the Roses and accidentally blew up his own garrison instead. The current lord of the manor is Sir Montague Fortune, baronet, who resides at Fortune Hall with his brother Thomas and half-sister Lady Elizabeth Scarlet. Sir Montague is considered by all the populace to be very much in the mould of his ancestor George Fortune. Other major houses in the village are The Old Palace, once the property of the prior of Fortune and currently the residence of Laura, Dowager Duchess of Cole, and the attractive modern villa Spring House, which was recently purchased by the heiress Miss Alice Lister of Harrogate. There is a lively social season in Fortune’s Folly that centres on the spa baths, the assembly rooms and the circulating library. There are two inns – The Granby Hotel, which is for the discerning visitor, and The Morris Clown for those slightly less plump of pocket and not too discriminating about the quality of their fellow guests. Whichever category you fall into, we hope you enjoy your visit! Nicola Cornick’s novels have received acclaim the world over “A rising star of the Regency arena.” —Publishers Weekly “Nicola Cornick creates a glittering, sensual world of historical romance that I never want to leave.” —Anna Campbell, author of Untouched “Ms Cornick has a brilliant talent for bringing her characters to life, and embracing the reader into her stories.” —RomanceJunkies Praise for Nicola’s previous books: “A powerful story, rich, witty and sensual – a divinely delicious treat.” —Marilyn Rondeau, Reviewers International Organization, on Deceived “If you’ve liked Nicola Cornick’s other books, you are sure to like this one as well. If you’ve never read one – what are you waiting for?” —Rakehell on Lord of Scandal “RITA® Award-nominated Cornick deftly steeps her latest intriguingly complex Regency historical in a beguiling blend of danger and desire.” —Booklist on Unmasked Confessions of a Duchess Nicola Cornick www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk) To all the wonderful writers I have met through the UK Romantic Novelists Association and the Romance Writers of America Upcoming titles inthe Brides of Fortune series SCANDALS OF AN INNOCENT UNDOING OF A LADY Browse www.nicolacornick.co.uk for Nicola’s full backlist Prologue Go, take thine angle, and with practiced line Light as the gossamer, the current sweep; And if thou failest in the calm, still deep, In the rough eddy may a prize be thine. —Thomas Doubleday Brooks’s Club, London, July 1809 “SHE REFUSED ME!” Sir Montague Fortune swept through the library of Brooks’s Club, scattered the gambling counters on the faro table with the edge of his sleeve and gave no apology, and deposited himself in an indignant flurry in a chair beside the Earl of Waterhouse. He smoothed one shaking hand over his hair and beckoned impatiently to a club servant to fetch him brandy. “Ungrateful minx,” he muttered. “That I, one of the Fortunes of Fortune’s Folly should seek to ally myself with the servant classes and be rejected!” He swallowed half the glass of brandy in one gulp and gave the assembled group a furious glare. “Do you know what she called me? A bibulous country squire with watery eyes!” He reached for the brandy bottle that the servant had thoughtfullyleft on a low table beside him, refilled his glass and frowned slightly. “What does bibulous mean?” “Damned if I know,” Nathaniel Waterhouse said comfortably. “Dex was the one who shone at Oxford whilst the rest of us were running wild. Dex?” Dexter Anstruther, thus applied to, raised his shrewd blue gaze from The Times and looked from the squire of Fortune’s Folly to the brandy bottle and back again. “It means that you drink too much, Monty,” he drawled. He looked across at Miles, Lord Vickery, the fourth member of the group, who was smiling quizzically at Montague Fortune’s indignation. “Am I missing something here?” Miles inquired. “Who is the discerning lady who has rejected Monty’s suit?” “You’ve been in the Peninsular so long you’ve missed the on dit, old fellow,” Waterhouse said. “Monty here has been paying ardent court to Miss Alice Lister, a former housemaid, if gossip is to be believed, who is now the richest heiress in Fortune’s Folly. He offered her his hand and his heart in return for her money but the sensible female has evidently rejected him.” He turned to Monty Fortune. “Surely you have not traveled all the way up to London just to bring us the bad news, Monty?” “No,” Montague Fortune huffed. “I have come up to consult my lawyer and study the Fortune’s Folly estate papers.” “Very laudable,” Dexter murmured. “Exactly what one would hope for in a responsible landowner.” Monty Fortune glared at him. “It is not for the benefit of my tenants,” he protested. “It is so that I can get my hands on the money!” “Whose money?” Dexter asked. “Everyone’s money!” Sir Montague barked. “It is not appropriate that half the population of Fortune’s Folly should be richer than the squire!” The others exchanged looks of covert amusement. The Fortunes were an old gentry family, perfectly respectable but with an inflated view of their own importance, and Sir Montague’s single-minded pursuit of money was considered by some to be very bad Ton. “What does Tom think of your plans, Monty?” Dexter asked, referring to Sir Montague’s younger brother. Sir Montague looked annoyed. “Said I was a grasping leech on other people’s lives and went off to spend my substance at the gambling tables,” he said. The others laughed. “And Lady Elizabeth?” Nat asked lazily. Lady Elizabeth Scarlet was Sir Montague’s debutante half sister and a veritable thorn in his side. “I cannot repeat Lizzie’s language to you,” Sir Montague said primly. “It is far too shocking!” The laughter of the others increased. Miles leaned forward. “So what are you planning, Monty?” “I intend to assert my rights as lord of the manor,” Sir Montague said, self-importantly. “There is a medieval law called the Dames’ Tax that has never been repealed. It permits the lord of the manor to levy a tithe on every unmarried woman in the village.” Miles’s lips formed a soundless whistle. “How much is the tithe?” “I can take half their fortune!” Sir Montague announced triumphantly. There was a shocked silence around the group. “Monty,” Dexter said slowly, “did I understand you correctly? It is in your power to levy a tax of half their wealth on all unmarried women in Fortune’s Folly?” Sir Montague nodded, eyes bright. “How?” Dexter demanded. “Why?” “I told you.” Sir Montague’s greedy gaze swept the group. “Medieval laws. Because Fortune’s Folly belonged to the church it was exempt when the secular laws were repealed in the seventeenth century. I discovered quite by accident that all the tithes and taxes are still applicable. In recent centuries they have not been collected only through the goodwill of the squire.” “And you do not have any goodwill,” Nat said dryly. “Not now that Miss Lister has refused me,” Sir Montague said, the virtuous expression on his face sitting oddly with the avarice in his eyes. “Had she accepted me I am sure that I would have been the most generous of village squires.” “And one of the richest,” Dexter murmured. “Every single woman…Half their fortunes…” Nat Waterhouse was spluttering into his brandy. “That’s…” His mathematical ability, never strong, failed him. “That’s potentially a huge amount of money, Monty!” he protested. “I know.” With a self-satisfied smile, Sir Montague settled back in his chair. “I have not quite worked it out yet but Miss Lister’s fortune is rumored to be in the region of eighty thousand pounds and Mrs. Everton pocketed a cool fifty thousand under the terms of her husband’s will—” Miles shot him a sharp glance. “It applies to widows as well as spinsters?” “All unmarried women,” Sir Montague confirmed. “But I have a cousin living in Fortune’s Folly,” Miles protested. “You can’t fleece her, Monty! It’s not socially acceptable, old fellow—not acceptable at all!” Dexter raked a hand through his disordered tawny hair in a characteristic gesture. “Presumably if the ladies of Fortune’s Folly choose to marry they are exempt from the tax?” Sir Montague nodded. “That’s it, Dexter. Got it in one. I can see why the government employs you.” Dexter’s lips twitched. “Thank you, Monty. I am glad that my powers of deduction are still as acute as I thought. So.” He paused. “You announce the introduction of the Dames’ Tax and the ladies of Fortune’s Folly have to decide whether they wish to give away half of their money to you in tax or all of it to their husbands in marriage.” Nat winced. “They will be as mad as wet hens to be forced into this situation, Monty. I hope you are prepared.” Sir Montague shrugged expansively. “They can’t do anything about it. The law is on my side. I tell you, the plan is perfect.” The others exchanged looks. “Monty, old chap,” Miles said softly, “much as I disapprove of your avarice, I do believe that you have just made Fortune’s Folly a veritable marriage mart, a positive haven for those of us who are—” “Impecunious,” Dexter said. “Improvident, penurious—” “Flat broke,” Nat said, “and looking for a rich wife.” “You’re right,” Sir Montague said, beaming. “I have made Fortune’s Folly the marriage mart of England!” Chapter One Fortune’s Folly, Yorkshire, September 1809 DOWAGER. It was such a lonely word. Most people thought of dowagers as faintly comic figures, diamonds displayed on their shelflike bosom, possessing a long, patrician nose to look down. Laura Cole thought of dowagers as the loneliest people in the world. It was Laura’s loneliness that had prompted her to go down to the river that day, dressed in a pale blue muslin gown with a warm navy-blue spencer over the top, a wide-brimmed straw bonnet on her head and a novel in her hand. She had read somewhere that the beauties of nature were supposed to soothe a troubled spirit and so she had decided to take the rowing boat out and float in bucolic peace under the willow branches that fringed the water’s edge. However, the nature cure was proving to be a disappointing failure. For a start the boat was full of fallen yellow leaves, and once Laura had brushed them off the seat her gloves were already dirty. She sat down and opened her book, but found herself unable to concentrate on the trials and tribulations of her heroine because her mind was full of her own difficulties instead. Every so often, golden-brown leaves would float down and adorn the page. The wind was surprisingly chilly. Laura frowned at her lack of attentiveness and tried all the harder to enjoy herself. Laura loved the countryside. She had grown up in this wild Yorkshire landscape and had lived in the county for much of her life, though she had spent the previous two years in London. She had hoped that returning to her childhood home would lessen the feeling of emptiness that dogged her steps these days, but it had not, and she could not understand it. It was not as though she was alone in the world. She adored her three-year-old daughter, Harriet, and spent an unfashionable amount of time with her. Fortune’s Folly was a busy little village and she had made many new friends there. And she also had a huge extended family with a tribe of cousins in every rank of the Ton. It was not even the case that she missed her late husband, Charles, for they had lived apart for the majority of their marriage. She had been shocked when Charles had died, of course. All of Society had been shocked that a man could be so profligate that he overturned his curricle and killed three of his mistresses as well as himself. But Laura had not missed the errant duke. She had felt enormous relief when she had heard that he had died. Relief. Guilt. Excitement. She had felt a thrill of anticipation that she and Hattie were free and then she had felt guilty again and lonelier than she had ever done in her life. It was to forge a future for herself and Hattie that Laura had come to Fortune’s Folly. She wanted her daughter to grow up in the country, so after a year of formal mourning she had left London, where people insisted on trying to commiserate with her about Charles’s death, and had come to this Yorkshire village near to Skipton, where her grandmother had left her a modest house, The Old Palace. It sounded grand but Laura privately thought that it should have been renamed Old Place rather than Palace because it was an ancient and inconvenient medieval building no doubt suited to a not-so-ancient but impoverished dowager duchess who was trying to make a new start in life. Her brother and sister-in-law had pressed her to live with them but Laura had a vision of what that would be like—the dowager aunt taken in through charity, deferring to her brother’s will at every turn—and she knew that even solitary poverty had to be better than genteel dependence. Hattie’s situation would be even more intolerable than her own as she grew up as a poor relation. It was not to be borne. Skimping and scraping, growing her own fruit and vegetables, keeping bees, making and mending, just herself and Hattie and a few servants had to be preferable to being her brother’s pensioner. Her daughter was a constant joy and revelation to her. And though she sometimes wished that Hattie had brothers or sisters with whom to share her childhood, Laura thought this wildly unlikely now. In order to have more children she would need to take a new husband and it would take an exceptional man to persuade her into marriage again after her experience with Charles. She and Hattie would fend quite well for themselves and soon, she was sure, her feelings of isolation would start to fade. She did not want her melancholy to affect Hattie. Hattie was such a happy child. She cast the book aside and untied the mooring rope. Since she could not seem to concentrate on reading, she would take the boat for a short row on the river. Physical activity would help to occupy her and she could admire the autumnal countryside at the same time. She pushed the boat off from the bank and sat back to enjoy the gentle flow of the river. As soon as the boat left the shelter of the bank the current caught it with quite unexpected strength. The water flowed deep and fast here. Nervous now, Laura gritted her teeth and tried to use the oars to steer back to the side, but she was clumsy and the river was too powerful. One of the oars slid from the rowlock and floated away. The boat began to make its rather erratic way down the river quite of its own accord. Life, Laura thought helplessly, as she watched the oar bob away from her, so seldom turned out as planned. Here she was, a widow of four and thirty with a small daughter, virtually penniless and with an uncertain future. And now her immediate prospects scarcely looked better than her long-term ones. In fact they looked very wet and unpleasant indeed. She needed to start thinking about how she was going to get out of this situation without compromising her life, if not her dignity. The boat scraped against the stony bed of the river and Laura made a grab for an overhanging branch, missed it and felt the sleeve of her spencer rip. Damnation. She could not afford to buy any new clothes. She would be the only duchess in the country who would be wearing darned clothing. People would commend her for her frugality to her face and talk about her poverty behind her back. Even in the small society of Fortune’s Folly there was a great deal of gossip, and not much of it was kind. Laura plied her one remaining oar with energy but little direction and felt the boat start to turn in a slow circle in the water, which was not what she had intended at all. She rowed a little harder and the boat turned more quickly, picking up momentum, swinging around in a way that made her feel slightly sick. She grabbed for another branch in a last attempt to save herself. The sunlight was in her eyes and the shadows danced against her lids, blinding her, and the bark of the tree scored her fingers. She had just managed to gain a faint purchase when she felt the boat lurch as though someone had pushed it hard. The branch snapped, hitting her on the back of the head as it fell into the water. She heard the snap of breaking twigs and a scuffle as though someone were running away. The boat rocked and Laura’s head spun with nausea. She let go of the second oar and clutched the sides. She could only hope that the boat would steady and the current would take her back in to the bank for she was momentarily too disoriented, and felt too sick, to do anything else. But the boat did not steady. Instead it lurched out into the center of the river and headed toward the fish weir. The current was flowing faster and faster now. Laura knew she should jump but she had left it too late. The river was too strong for her here. She thought that she heard someone shouting but the sound was lost in the roar of the water and the grating of the stones of the weir beneath the hull of the boat. It rolled violently and then Laura was pitched over the side and the river closed over her head. The noise was in her ears and the water filled her lungs so she could not breathe. She had a last, vivid picture in her mind of her daughter’s smiling face and then everything went dark. Chapter Two DEXTER ANSTRUTHER was fishing. Such a mild autumn day in the rocky reaches of the River Tune was perfect for grayling. Dexter liked fishing because it was a peaceful, soothing and solitary occupation, in contrast to the frequently disturbing, violent and unpleasant matters that he had to deal with in his work for the Home Secretary. Only the previous week Dexter had masterminded the capture of a brutal criminal who specialized in theft and extortion. He had hoped that after that success Lord Liverpool, the Home Secretary, would finally be persuaded to allow him some much-needed leave. But Liverpool had another plan. “Need you to go to Yorkshire and deal with some damned murdering criminal,” Lord Liverpool had said, snapping a quill pen irritably between his fingers and casting the parts aside with a muttered curse. “You remember the death of Sir William Crosby, Anstruther?” “Yes, my lord,” Dexter said. Sir William Crosby, a Yorkshire magistrate, had shot himself whilst out hunting a month before. “I thought,” he added, “that that had been an accident?” Lord Liverpool shook his head. “Murder,” he said, with gloomy relish. “It was dressed up to look like an accident but Crosby was left-handed and the angle of the bullet made it impossible for him to have tripped and fallen. Blasted nuisance, but the fact is that these blackguards can’t be allowed to get away with it.” “Quite, my lord,” Dexter said. “But if it is a straightforward case of murder, surely this is a matter for the local constable rather than the Guardians—” He stopped as Liverpool shook his head crossly and reached for another quill to decimate. “Can’t allow some bungling local official to deal with this, Anstruther,” he had barked. “It’s complicated. Warren Sampson may be involved. Crosby was investigating some business that implicated Sampson when he died. Convenient, eh?” Dexter pursed his lips on a soundless whistle. That did put a different complexion on matters. For several years there had been rumors that Warren Sampson, a disgustingly rich Yorkshire mill owner and businessman, was involved in stirring up civil unrest and sedition in the North of England. Sampson was clever about it and there was nothing that could be pinned on him; he worked through intermediaries and it was thought that he encouraged mill riots so that he could steal business from his rivals and that he had perpetrated various insurance frauds and other swindles. Lord Liverpool was near apoplectic because the authorities had been unable to trap Sampson. “There is a rumor that one of Sampson’s henchmen is a member of the local gentry,” Liverpool said disgustedly. “The bored son of some rustic squire looking for excitement and extra cash, perhaps. He may well be the murderer, Anstruther. The whole thing is a damned nuisance, but the case needs careful handling.” Dexter had sighed. “Do we have any idea of the location of this aristocratic delinquent, my lord?” “Sampson owns land around Peacock Oak and Fortune’s Folly,” Lord Liverpool said, “and Crosby lived close by. The trouble is that every petty criminal in the country is hanging out there at the moment. Natural enough when that dashed fool Monty Fortune has put about town the fact that he has made the place the marriage mart of England. The town is crowded with visitors and every villain for miles around wants to get their share of the spoils.” Dexter saw the problem. Even the impecunious fortune hunters who flocked to the village might have a watch or a snuffbox worth stealing and the homes of the rich heiresses would yield fine pickings. It was a temptation many criminals would not wish to resist and in amongst the petty thieves might lurk a more dangerous malefactor with Warren Sampson pulling his strings. “Whilst you are there you could also turn your attention to finding yourself a rich wife, Anstruther,” Lord Liverpool had added. “Don’t think that I don’t know your family finances are in a parlous state. Your mama can no more retrench than she could swim the Thames, your sisters need to be launched into society and your brothers are damned expensive to educate. You need to wed an heiress. Penniless men are vulnerable to blackmail and I cannot have that in a man working so closely with me.” “I would not dream of succumbing to blackmail, no matter how desperate my situation, my lord,” Dexter said coldly. He clenched his hands into fists to prevent himself from telling his employer how offended he was at the suggestion. “No need to get touchy with me, lad,” Liverpool grunted, noticing the gesture. “I know you’re sound as a bell but others in your family may not be and where there is a weakness…” He shook his head. “Get you to Fortune’s Folly. If you cannot catch yourself a rich wife there, then I wash my hands of you. But make sure that you find our miscreant before you succumb to the lures of some young lady. I don’t want you distracted, An-struther. This Fortune’s Folly marriage mart business is the perfect cover for your presence in Yorkshire but make sure you keep your mind on your work first and your fortune hunting second.” “Yes, my lord,” Dexter said. “I’ll give you two months,” Lord Liverpool said. “Want the matter tied up by Christmas, Anstruther. That should give you plenty of time. If you’re lucky you might even fit in some fishing, as well. Catch the murdering miscreant fair and square, see that he implicates Sampson, as well, and if you also come back with a wealthy wife you will have done a good job.” “Yes, my lord,” Dexter said, heart sinking. There was no reasoning with Lord Liverpool when he was in this sort of mood. And truth to tell, Dexter knew that he should not be arguing the case anyway. Lord Liverpool was right—he desperately needed a rich wife and ever since Monty Fortune had made his announcement in Brooks’s Club that night he had been thinking of going to Yorkshire to find one. The problem, Dexter reflected, as he cast his line again, was that he was a reluctant suitor. Hence the fact that he was fishing today rather than paying court to any of the ladies gathered in the winter gardens and the pump rooms. Blatant fortune hunting offended his sense of honor. But, as Miles Vickery had helpfully pointed out to him, honor could be an expensive commodity and one that, in this context, Dexter really could not afford. Dexter’s father had died five years before, having gambled away a fortune that he did not have. The Honorable James Anstruther had staggered out of his club on his way to a low tavern to drown his sorrows, and had finished the whole sorry business of his life by stumbling, blind drunk, in front of a carriage and leaving his eldest son with a pile of debts and six siblings to take care of. By great good fortune he had staved off his ruin until Dexter had completed his studies at Oxford, which at least ensured he could get a job in the government, but it was not well paid and the widowed Mrs. Anstruther and his younger brothers and sisters were ruinously extravagant and expensive. Some people are blessed with one irresponsible parent; Dexter had two. In that respect The Honorable Mr. Anstruther and his wife were extremely well suited, with their gambling, their affairs and their general decadence. Dexter, the eldest child and the only one of the seven members of the “Anstruther Collection” who could definitely be assumed to be his father’s son, had watched his parents lurch from financial crisis to emotional disaster for as long as he could remember. From the age of twelve he had determined that his life was going to be the opposite of his father’s: rational, controlled and with no dangerous emotions to cloud his judgment. He would marry responsibly to a woman who would be faithful to him and his children would know exactly who their parents were. He would never tolerate for his offspring the kind of stigma and ignominy that had attached to him and his siblings: the covert smiles, the knowing looks, the veiled references to his parents’ disastrous affairs and their own illegitimacy. Such a rational approach to life had stood him in good stead until the age of twenty-two, when he had succumbed to one spectacular, exhilarating episode of sexual abandon, during which he had lost his heart as well as his virginity and fallen hopelessly in love. The incident had been a disaster, reinforcing in the end all his beliefs about the need for a calm and controlled life. In his youth and inexperience he had miscalculated badly and thought his feelings were returned. Disillusioned and angry when he had discovered they were not, he had sought solace in liaisons with courtesans that he could ill afford until Lord Liverpool had called him gruffly to account. There was no sound but for the call of a moorhen by the riverbank and the splash of a fish farther upstream. The day was extremely peaceful. Dexter cast his line again, thinking of the calm and rational future marriage he had planned. “Try not to make as big a hash of this case as you did that Glory business, Anstruther,” Liverpool had said caustically as he bade Dexter farewell. “That whole affair was an utter disaster.” Dexter shifted slightly now as he reflected on the conversation. The “Glory business” Lord Liverpool had referred to had indeed been an unfortunate case. Four years previously, Dexter and his colleague Nick Falconer had failed to capture the highway woman Glory, a popular heroine who was the darling of the Yorkshire Dales. Glory had fought for justice in her own inimitable style,righting wrongs, settling scores, taking from the rich to give to the poor in true Robin Hood style. Even now, Dexter could not quite think of Glory as anything other than a heroine, a piece of sentimentality that irritated him profoundly when he should not have been thinking about her at all. The bobbin on the end of his fishing line dipped, indicating that a fish had taken the bait. Dexter started to reel it in. He heard a splash followed by an expletive and then an oar drifted lazily past him, tangling briefly with the fishing line and dislodging his catch. Dexter swore, too, and again as a second oar came sailing past, knocking his fishing rod off the bank. He made a grab for it and reeled it in just as Laura, Dowager Duchess of Cole, floated past in a rowing boat. Dexter straightened up and watched curiously. The rowing boat was spinning slowly in the current, heading toward the fish weir. He could see Laura sitting bolt upright, clutching the sides of the boat. She seemed stunned. Dexter doubted that she could swim. Most women could not, for it was not something that they were taught. And she was perfectly right to be worried, of course. He calculated quite coolly that in a minute, two at the most, the boat would tumble over the weir and Laura would fall into the water and might well drown. She might hit her head as she fell, or her long skirts might become entangled and pull her underwater, or any number of fatal things might happen to her. Which, arguably, was what Laura Cole deserved for giving him such a perfect night of love four years before and then shattering his heart immediately afterward,showing herself to be no more than a cold, calculating, selfish and hypocritical creature into the bargain. Not that he was bitter. He did not care. Laura Cole could drown, for all he cared. Hell and the devil. Laura Cole would drown in approximately one minute and he was standing here watching it happen. Dexter threw down the fishing rod and wrenched off his jacket. There was no time to stop to remove his boots. He strode into the river—it was shallow at the edge but deep in the middle—just as the boat reached the top of the weir and stopped with a rather sickening crunch as the wooden frame caught on the stones at the top. “Jump!” he shouted. Laura turned toward him. Her face was a pale blur. She was gripping the edge of the boat so tightly that Dexter could see her knuckles white against the dark wood. She did not move. The water was up to his chest now and the current was frighteningly strong, threatening to pull him over the top of the weir. The mossy stone of the riverbed slid beneath his feet, treacherously uneven, as he struggled to stay upright. Dexter made a grab for the boat but in that second the keel slid with a grating roar across the stones at the top of the weir, tipped up at a steep angle and decanted Laura into the river. She disappeared over the top of the weir in a cacophony of water, her bonnet tumbling off and one of her shoes flying through the air in a perfect arc before landing with a plop in the water beside Dexter’s head. Muttering a curse, Dexter gave in and allowed the current to take him over the weir and into the deep green pool at the bottom. Even as he did it he wondered what on earth possessed him to take such a dangerous risk. He felt as though all the air had been pummeled from his body in the fall. There was the sound of rushing water in his ears, cold water that chilled him bone-deep. It filled his lungs, smothering him. He stumbled upright, shaking the water from his eyes, searching desperately for Laura. Then he saw her. She was struggling like a madwoman against the heavy, dragging weight of her skirts, which threatened to pull her under. He grabbed hold of her and held her hard against him, protecting her from the tow of the current. His hand was firm in the hollow of her back, their lower bodies pressed intimately together. The water splashed cold around them, but where their bodies touched and clung together he could, suddenly and surprisingly, feel the heat in her. Her breasts were resting against his chest and through his soaking shirt and her drenched clothes he could feel her nipples tight and hard, pressing against him. Despite the cold water and the extreme discomfort of their situation, he felt his body start to stir as he remembered that other occasion on which she had been clasped close in his arms, naked, warm and enticing. Dexter had not anticipated this happening to him when—if—he ever met Laura Cole again. Certainly it was not his usual response to a soaking-wet female. But now the memories of his night with Laura swelled like a dam that was about to burst and in combination with her wet and seminaked state made his erection swell in proportion. He felt simultaneously hugely aroused and furiously angry with himself for that instant and very inappropriate arousal. He tried to think of icy winds and how chilly the water was, but his body felt like a furnace. He could not control it. And the more he tried to exert self-control the more excited his errant body seemed to become, as though it were asserting its independence and its right to find Laura attractive if it chose. Dex was enraged. Laura could evidently feel his response, as well. She raised a hand and dashed the wet strands of honey-brown hair back from her face. Her hazel eyes snapped with anger and discomposure. A hint of color touched her cheekbones. She looked as though she was as uncomfortable with his proximity as he was with hers. It was the reaction of the perfect, respectable duchess that he had always imagined her to be. And indeed she had been utterly perfect in his bed and nowhere near as virtuous as she pretended to be out of it… “Mr. Anstruther! What are you doing?” Laura hit exactly the right note for an outraged dowager duchess and Dexter admired the apparent ease with which she could assume the role. No one hearing her now would ever guess that she had taken him into her bed and made mad, ecstatic, explosive love to him for an entire afternoon, evening and night. It might be something that, with hindsight, he deplored ever happening, but it seemed he could not forget it. “I am saving you from drowning, your grace,” Dexter said politely. “However, if you object I can let you go.” He suited actions to words by loosening his grip on her. Laura gave a muffled squeak and clung to him all the more tightly, her fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms. Dexter was immediately reminded of the sensation of her fingernails scoring his back as she had moved in sensual abandonment beneath him. He tried to ignore the thought and erase the memory—and failed dismally. His body hardened still further until he felt as though he might burst—or throw her down on the riverbank and make love to her. He struggled for some rationality but his body still felt as though it was under independent ownership, hot, tight and desperate for satisfaction. He almost groaned aloud. It was a long time since he had had a woman—since his fall from grace and subsequent recovery he had avoided casual affaires—and none of the women he had known had ever affected him in the stunningly physical way that Laura did. That had been part of the problem. The awareness between them was unwanted, it was infuriating, but it was undeniable. “Mr. Anstruther, do you always find situations such as this so arousing?” Laura’s tone was frigid enough to turn the most ardent man limp. “Always,” Dexter said grimly. He bent, slid an arm beneath her knees and swept her off her feet and up into his arms. Judging by the startled look on Laura’s face, he guessed that no one had ever done that to her before. Perhaps it was not surprising for she was a tall woman. He stood at over six feet and she was a bare few inches shorter than him. Many men, he was aware, would find that intimidating. Buffeted by the current, he strode toward the bank and deposited her gently on the ground. She was still wearing one shoe, the match for the one that had floated off down the river. He noticed that her other foot, in its soaked silk stocking, was large for a woman, but nevertheless delicately shaped with an elegantly high instep. For some reason Dexter found the fact that Laura had big feet to be rather endearing. He wished now that the contrast between her size and her apparent fragility did not appeal to him so much. He did not like her and he did not want to be attracted to her any more but reason, the mainspring of his life, seemed to desert him when Laura was around. It was most inconvenient and quite inexplicable. “Thank you for your assistance.” Laura’s tone was still arctic. “You may leave me now.” Dexter had had every intention of doing precisely that, but her dismissal grated on him. He stood watching as she wrung the water from her skirts. It was a fairly pointless exercise. Her entire gown was soaking, damp, he was quick to appreciate, in ways that went far beyond the practice followed by fashionable whores. The drenched muslin clung to every one of her curves—and those who declared Laura Cole to have no figure were clearly mistaken for she had the most entrancingly small, rounded, tip-tilted breasts and a deliciously arched line to her hips. But Dexter knew that already. He had seen those curves. He had traced every last one of them with his hands and his lips and his tongue. He had worshipped her with his body… Suddenly the mild autumn day seemed sweltering. Dexter’s brain ceased to function at any coherent level as his mind finally gave up the resistance and was swamped with erotic images of Laura lying naked on her tumbled bed at Cole Court whilst he followed every lush, tempting line of her body with his lips. The memories seemed indelibly imprinted on his mind. No attempt at erasure ever seemed to work, no matter how he had tried, or how he had pretended to forget her. He had wondered what would happen if and when he met Laura Cole again. It was a natural enough matter to speculate about. In the encounters he had envisaged, he had variously been civil, cold, contemptuous and indifferent. In none of them had his throat dried with lust and his eyes been riveted to her slender figure as she stood dripping wet and unbearably seductive before him. Another hot wave of desire surged through him even as he shivered as the breeze flattened his wet trousers against his thighs. There was no concealing his enormous erection now. And Laura had stopped wringing out her skirts, the material falling from her hands as she straightened up, and was looking at him with a mixture of shock and outrage. “Mr. Anstruther, a gentleman does not stare at a lady in that frank and boorish manner. Nor does he demonstrate such a strong reaction…” She stopped, making a vague flapping gesture with her hands toward his groin. Dexter could have put her right on that. No matter how much he fought it, no matter how much he wished to suppress his desires, he was obliged to admit that any man with a pulse would be staring when a figure straight from his most heated fantasies was standing before him. That same man would, as Laura herself had put it, develop a strong and well-nigh irresistible reaction to what he saw. From the confrontational tilt of her chin, however, he suspected that Laura would not take kindly to being corrected. She had started to shiver and looked both upset and defiant. Whilst he had no time for her false protestations of respectability—not with the things that he knew about her—he could see that this might not be the moment to discuss the matter. With one stride Dexter had reached her side and swung her up in his arms again. She went absolutely rigid as soon as he touched her. “Where are you staying?” he inquired. “I live at The Old Palace,” Laura said, “but there is absolutely no need for you to carry me home in this fashion. Unhand me at once, Mr. Anstruther. I insist!” She was at her most peremptory. Most people, Dexter was aware, would obey such a command from a dowager duchess. He ignored it and did not even break his stride as he marched purposefully across the water meadow toward the gate that led to The Old Palace. Laura’s hair was starting to dry now in honey-brown wisps about her face. She had had it cut since Dexter had first known her and the cluster of curls in the nape of her neck was extremely becoming. One of them brushed his cheek like a feather across his bare skin. Dexter felt the shiver down to his toes. It was so light a touch to have so profound an effect on him. But it seemed impossible not to be aware of every last inch of her. She smelled of fresh air and roses; the scent was in her hair and on her skin and it made him want to bury his face in the curve of her neck and to taste her. He wondered if she would taste the same as he remembered. He wondered if she would kiss the way he remembered. He imagined not. These days he was inclined to believe—or to hope for the sake of his peace of mind—that in his youthful infatuation he had imagined her to be so much more perfect than she really was. The dazzling, physical compatibility that he had thought existed between them would prove to be a product of his inexperience. A kiss was just a kiss. She would not be special and he would not lose his head over her again. But he would give a lot to know… As though sensing his feelings, Laura tried to hold herself away from him and put some distance between their bodies. “Do not be alarmed,” Dexter said. “You are perfectly safe. All I mean to do is convey you home. I have no intention of ravishing you. I do not even like you.” Laura arched her brows. “Indeed? Parts of you seem to like me well enough, Mr. Anstruther.” “True,” Dexter said. “They always did. But then not all of me is as discerning as my mind.” Laura gave a snort of disgust. “Then spare yourself further bodily inconvenience and permit me to walk home unaided. I do not need your help. Indeed, I had no notion that you were even visiting Fortune’s Folly.” “Nor I you.” “A pity,” Laura said acidly. “If only we had known we could each have chosen a different destination and spared ourselves the unpleasantness of having to meet.” Dexter ignored her comments again, kicking open the paddock gate with one booted foot and striding across the field toward the house. A little social discomfort was the least she owed him. Anger and contempt licked through his blood again. Laura had thrown him out of the house the very morning after their passionate night together. He had begged her to run away with him and she had told him he was no more than a stupid youth. She had laughed at his suggestion, taking all that new and untried love for her that he had only just discovered and making it seem tawdry. Her words were etched in his memory: “Did you imagine that this meant more to me than a brief and pleasant interlude? What a great deal you have to learn, Mr. Anstruther. It was but sport.…” He had been ridiculously naive, and she an experienced woman to whom he was, no doubt, just one in a long line of liaisons and infidelities. He knew that was how many of the bored wives of the Ton passed their time, going from husband to lover as the fancy took them. But at the time he had thought Laura different and the whole business had left him feeling stupid and betrayed, and vowing never again to allow his physical passions to cloud his emotions and swamp his good judgment. He had thought himself a man of firm principles until he had met Laura Cole but now he thought bitterly that in her company his strength of character lasted just as long as it took him to take his clothes off. Cynically, he supposed that he should actually be grateful to her. If she had not shown her true colors, if she had not discarded him with careless disdain but had taken him at his word and run away with him, he would have made an almighty mess of his life and one from which he might never have recovered his rational, calm and logical course. No indeed, he should thank Laura for turning him down so brutally and making him see that passion had no place in his life. Laura shifted in his arms and sighed again. Dexter almost sighed himself. His body was still clamoring for satisfaction even as his mind despised her. It was a small revenge to make her so uncomfortable through his proximity and not a particularly sensible idea, but he felt she deserved it. “You know, you really should not go out alone in a boat if you cannot swim,” he observed softly into the tumble of curls that tickled his chin. “I can swim.” Laura wriggled crossly, which did nothing for Dexter’s concentration and a great deal for his bodily torment. “I was brought up around here and swam in the river from the age of three,” she said. “Unfortunately I do not have an extensive wardrobe and prefer not to swim in a muslin gown.” “How like a woman,” Dexter said. “Given a choice between jumping in the water and ruining her gown or escaping drowning, she prefers not to jump.” Laura clenched her lower lip between her teeth. Dexter felt his body jolt. He had fantasized often enough about feeling that mouth against his own again. “I had forgotten that you are an expert on women these days, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said. “How fortuitous that your experience gained in bawdy houses and brothels across London has given you such an insight into the female mind. You have changed.” “I have.” Anger flickered within Dexter again. He tried to quench it. Anger was not a proper response to this situation. It was dangerous and threatened his control in much the same way that his lust did. Laura could try to goad him as much as she wished but he would not rise to her provocation. “I am not the same man you knew before,” he said. “Evidently,” Laura said. “Four years can change a man.” “Is it four years?” Dexter was not going to admit that he could tell her the precise length of their time apart in days and months, and possibly hours if he was honest. “I had forgotten.” “Of course you had,” Laura said. He saw a faint bitter smile touch her lips. “Men always do.” Well, no doubt she knew the truth of that with her experience. Dexter tried not to care. He wrenched open the garden gate and marched up the path. The grounds at The Old Palace were empty and overgrown. The house seemed shuttered and still. Dexter looked around. “Where are your servants?” Laura seemed discomfited. “I do not have a large staff. They are probably busy about the house somewhere and my daughter is out in the village with her nursery maid, so no one will be about.” Dexter had yet to meet a duchess who had less than a regiment of servants. They seemed to think that being waited upon hand and foot was their inalienable right. But perhaps Charles Cole had left Laura without a feather to fly and no means to support her young daughter. The new duke held the title now and there was apparently no love lost between Henry Cole and his cousin’s widow, so he would not be financing her, either. At any rate, no one answered the door to Dexter’s increasingly forthright knocking. “Oh, put me down!” Laura said, clearly losing patience and slipping from his arms before Dexter could stop her. “I can open a door for myself and I am chilled to the bone, dripping here.” She looked at him. “You are very damp, as well, Mr. Anstruther. Do you require a change of clothing? I do believe there are some old clothes of my grandfather’s somewhere about the place should you need them.” “Thank you, your grace,” Dexter said, with a slight bow, “but I shall collect my fishing gear and walk back to the inn as I am.” Laura looked at the pool of water that was dripping steadily from his shirt onto the slate of the path. “Surely that will cause conjecture if anyone sees you?” “Not as much as the sight of me walking back to the Morris Clown Inn dressed in your grandfather’s Georgian fashions, I imagine,” Dexter said. “My grandfather was quite the beau,” Laura said. “You might find that you start a new style. Not that that is likely to appeal to you, I suppose, Mr. Anstruther. Fashion is far too shallow an interest for one of your serious nature, is it not? Or have you changed in that respect, as well?” Dexter was almost drawn into replying to that. He admitted ruefully to himself that he was finding it hard to resist Laura’s provocation. She had a way of getting under his skin unmatched by anyone else he had ever met. She looked exquisite, he thought, standing there in damp disarray. Others overlooked Laura because her beauty was not of the obvious variety that society admired. Her appeal for him lay in the fine, direct gaze of those hazel eyes and the rich creaminess of a skin that was sprinkled with endearing freckles. It was in the soft curl of that honey-chestnut-colored hair and the upward turn of her lips, as though she was always on the edge of a smile. The fact that she was not in the first flush of youth and had a tracery of fine lines about her eyes only enhanced her beauty for him because it added character…Dexter caught himself up before he got too carried away. There was no point in standing here catching a chill whilst he rhapsodized about Laura’s outward beauty. It was not a fair guide to the woman beneath, whom he had discovered was actually a calculating and manipulative whore. “On second thoughts, I will accept your offer of a change of clothing, thank you,” he said, following her into the stone flagged hallway of The Old Palace. “The breeze is chilly today and there is no sense in taking cold. One must be practical.” “Of course,” Laura said. “I know that you pride yourself on your practicality, Mr. Anstruther.” The house was silent, the floors muffled in ancient rugs, the walls smothered in equally dark and old tapestries on which were depicted a variety of bloodthirsty war and hunting scenes. A huge suit of medieval armor dominated one corner. From the wall above the fireplace glared a bad-tempered stag’s head whilst a moth-eaten stuffed fox prowled the stone windowsill. There was a child’s rocking horse in one corner and a rather beautiful porcelain-faced doll sitting in a small chair. “I see that your grandfather had martial tastes as well as sartorial ones,” Dexter said, looking at the shields hanging rather precariously from the walls. Laura shook her head. “No, that was my grandmother. She rode to hounds every day and could shoot a longbow. She said that one of them had to think about more than the cut of their clothes.” She pointed to two portraits hanging on the far wall. “There they are.” The late Lord Asthall looked every inch the eighteenth-century dandy, Dexter thought. He had hazel eyes and black hair, a pronounced nose and strong chin, and his expression was arrogant and amoral. His features were also vaguely familiar. Dexter’s paternal family had come from Yorkshire several generations back and there had been a rumor in the family that there was bastard Asthall blood in the line somewhere. Certainly Dexter’s brother Roly and his father’s so-called “ward” Caro had the same coloring. Dexter reflected ruefully that that was probably where his father had got his libertine tendencies from, as well. Lord Asthall looked a complete cad. Still, Lady Asthall was, quite frankly, a fearsome Amazon of a woman in her archery dress, so perhaps they had been well matched. “Were they happy together?” he asked. “I do not believe so. My grandfather was a terrible rake,” Laura said, confirming Dexter’s suspicions. “I am surprised that Grandmama did not shoot him with her bow and arrow.” “And does your daughter inherit the same sporting prowess as her great-grandmother?” Dexter asked. Laura paused. There was a rather odd silence. Looking at her, Dexter thought she looked pinched and cold, as though he were trespassing on a subject she did not want to discuss. “Hattie is still very young.” Laura spoke stiffly. “She can sit a small pony if I walk beside her and she loves her rocking horse, so perhaps one day she will be a rider.” There was another silence. Dexter could hear the loud hum of a bumblebee trapped against the windowpane and the rush of the river over the weir. He felt a little disquieted to think of Laura rattling around in this ancient place all on her own with her small daughter, but then there did not seem much of value to steal here. It seemed that his speculation about Charles Cole leaving Laura with no money had been close to the mark. She was penniless, alone and unprotected. He was disturbed at how uneasy the thought made him. The door at the end of the dark corridor opened and a butler shuffled forward into the patch of sunlight that was making patterns through the diamond windowpanes. “Your grace! I did not hear the bell.” Dexter was shocked to recognize Carrington, the butler from Cole Court. Four years ago the man had been vigorous and healthy. Now he looked old and broken. He stooped. His hands shook and his voice was a whisper. Dexter doubted that he could hold a tray, let alone announce visitors. “It does not matter, Carrington,” Laura spoke softly. “Please could you show Mr. Anstruther down to the warming room whilst I find some dry clothing for him? We have had a small mishap.” The butler’s gaze darted from one to the other like a furtive rabbit. “An accident? Oh, madam—” “There is nothing to cause distress,” Laura interrupted firmly. “It was no more than a fall in the river. If you would be so good…” The butler nodded and drew himself up with a sad echo of his former authority. “This way, sir, if you please.” Chapter Three DEXTER FOLLOWED the tottering butler down the old stone stair. On more than one occasion he put out a hand to steady the man when it appeared he was about to tumble down the steps to the bottom. He could not believe the change in Carrington and was tempted to ask him what had happened except that the butler seemed confused and did not appear to recognize him at all. He showed Dexter into the little warming room, where a fire burned hot in the grate and the air was scented with lavender from the drying sheets, and promptly disappeared. Dexter stripped off his sodden shirt with some relief, for little trickles of water were still running down his chest and they felt icy cold. His boots were also full of water and it was one of the most unpleasant things he had ever experienced. He hoped that they were not ruined. They were almost new and he could not afford to buy another pair. He had invested in several new items of clothing to add credence to his role as a fortune hunter since he did not think he could turn up to pay court to an heiress looking like the beggar he was. Lord Liverpool gave such expenses short shrift, so now his wallet was empty. He heard a knock and a step in the doorway and turned to find Laura there, her arms full of clothes. She was staring at his naked torso and a deep pink color stained her cheeks. There was shock in her eyes. The clothes slipped from her hands and she made a grab for them even whilst her gaze was still riveted on him. “I’ve brought…Um…Did you…” Dexter was surprised that she was acting like a startled virgin when she was an experienced woman, a widow with a child. Surely there was no need for any pretense between them after all that had happened? And surely she did not possess an ounce of modesty? In bed with him four years previously she had been open and generous, warm and wanton. Her sweet, seductive shamelessness had been one of the reasons that he had fallen so disastrously in love with her. It had seemed so honest and unguarded at the time. But she had put him right quickly enough on that score. She had no use for him and his devotion, so she had said. And when she had had him in her bed once it seemed that she had no further use for him in that respect, either. “It would be best for you to leave now,” she had said in the morning, with a cool, aristocratic disdain that had made him feel utterly insignificant. “I would not wish the servants to find you here…” Yet now it seemed that she had forgotten her indifference to him, since she was staring like a woman who had never seen a half-naked man before and looking flustered and more than a little intrigued. Her glance stirred something sensual in Dexter, reviving the fire he had only just managed to damp down. Somewhere at the back of his mind a voice was cautioning him that to take this any further would be dangerous and irresponsible. He ignored it. He wanted to know if what he had experienced before with Laura had been no more than vivid imagining. He needed to know. Once he had exorcised the power she had over him, once he had proved that there was nothing special about Laura at all, he would be free of the past. He was no longer an inexperienced youth. He was at no risk of falling in love with Laura Cole all over again. Very deliberately he bent down and eased off his boots. When he straightened up Laura was still staring. With calculated intent, he started to unfasten his trousers. “Did you want me to take these off, as well?” His voice had a rough edge to it now. Laura’s eyes met his and there was a confused and heated expression in them that made the lust slam through him, tightening its grip on him even as he cautioned himself against it. “Stop! No!” Laura seemed to wake from a trance. She thrust the pile of clothes down on the table and glared at him. “What are you doing?” “I am removing my wet clothes,” Dexter said. He allowed his gaze to drift over her appraisingly. “You should do the same, your grace. You look—” his voice dropped “—most disheveled.” He saw Laura swallow hard. Her hazel eyes darkened further and the unconscious desire in them sent another jolt of lust through him. The warmth of the room, the intimacy of the small space, the heady scent of lavender and his seminakedness were a powerful blend. Dexter took a step toward her. He had not intended this when first they had met. He had certainly not meant to provoke Laura or tease her or make love to her. Such a course of action was completely irrational. But she was standing there with her hair tumbled about her shoulders and the damned gown still clinging to every curve and he wanted her with all the raw longing he had known four years before. And he wanted to prove that he could master that longing and take one kiss and that it would mean absolutely nothing. He took another step toward Laura. She took a step back so that she was trapped between his body and the warming room door. She was clutching one of the shirts to her breast now like armor. “Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said, her voice a thread of sound, “this is most improper.” “You were swift enough to help me out of my clothes the last time we met,” Dexter said, “and we both know that your concessions to propriety are only for outward show.” He took the shirt from her hands and tossed it carelessly aside, closing the space between them. He saw the expression flare in Laura’s eyes, pain as well as heat. “I did not invite you here to—” “To take up where we left off?” Dexter was so close to her now that he could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the damp muslin of her gown and the pulse that beat in the hollow of her throat. He wanted to rip the dress from neck to hem and expose her pale body to his sight and touch. The violence of his reaction shocked him, a man who prided himself on his self-control, even as the shock was swept away by the desire that ran through his blood in a ravening tide. “Perhaps you did not intend this.” His words were a breath against her lips. “But now that I understand what it is that you want…” Confusion flickered in the hazel eyes so close to his. “What I want?” “Yes. An affair. No complications, no involvement. Four years ago you told me that sex was nothing more than sport to you. So that is what I am offering now—a love affair, nothing but pleasure.” She put a hand against his chest and pushed him away from her. “I never said an affair was what I wanted!” Anger and lust warred in Dexter. The feeling was utterly alien to him. He did not want to talk. His need for her had pushed him beyond that but still the bitterness in him could not be denied. His voice was harsh. “Four years ago I asked you to elope with me and instead you laughed at me and threw me from the house. It was clear that you did not wish for any emotional entanglement.” “No, I did not…” Her voice caught. “But I did not intend you to interpret that as a desire for an affair.” “No?” His anger increased by several notches. It seemed as uncontrollable as his need for her and his lack of restraint only served to inflame him further. “So all you sought was one night of passion,” he said bitterly. “I realize that when your appetite was slaked you wanted nothing other than for me to leave.” He did not give her the opportunity to reply. His delusion of self-restraint vanished and he bent his head and kissed her, determined now to prove that there was nothing unique or exceptional in his response to her and there never had been. As soon as they touched he knew he had lost. His mouth slanted over hers with the same precise perfection that he remembered. They matched as though they were made for one another. Their bodies came together gently, flawlessly, with the same exquisite sense of rightness as before. The thought knocked the breath from Dexter’s body as powerfully as any physical reaction. There was no uncertainty between them. Their bodies recognized each other with an instinct older than time. The sense of belonging together was strong and dangerously seductive. Old feelings and emotions started to awaken. “This is how it was always meant to be…” Dexter knew that such thoughts and emotions were an illusion. They had to be. He might achieve physical bliss with Laura Cole but there was no more to it than that. There was no real sense of rightness, no belonging, no love. Love was a misnomer for infatuation anyway, and he was too old and experienced to feel that now. But in trying to banish the need he felt for her all he had managed to achieve was to awaken every last yearning, every last desire. He ached with the need for satisfaction. He wanted Laura so much it actually hurt. He closed his mind to complicated emotion and allowed himself simply to feel. He deepened the kiss, coaxing her lips apart, his tongue sliding inside to search and caress and seduce. She tasted sweet as honey. He sensed a hesitation in her beneath the hot, helpless response that she could not deny, and he almost drew back, but a moment later her uncertainty had gone and she pressed closer against him, meeting his demands with a heated need of her own. Her hands slid across his bare chest, raising sensations in him that roused a firestorm of physical desire. This was the secret duchess that he remembered, the woman who responded to him without fear or modesty, who gave all of herself, in contradiction of her cool public persona, and aroused an answering ache of need in him. He had wondered if he had imagined their response to one another or if, in his innocence, he had made it more powerful and extraordinary than it really was. Yet now there was the same cascade of sensation and emotion, an explosion of feeling, sparks of fire in his blood. He was not a fanciful man but the force of it almost swept him away. But as he reached for her to draw her closer still, she drew back with a gasp. “No! I cannot do this.” She took a step back and raised one hand to her forehead. A frown dented the smooth skin between her brows as though she had a sudden headache. “I do not want this.” Some of the white-hot fever eased within him and this time when Dexter made a determined effort to regain rational control, he succeeded. He too took a step back, his hands falling to his sides. So it seemed that what had felt so real, so right to him had been no more than an illusion. Once again it had meant nothing to her. “Forgive me,” he said with biting sarcasm, “but I was under the impression that you kissed me back, your grace. Were you merely curious to see if all that whorehouse experience had changed me?” She flinched. The color flooded her cheeks. Her lips were deep pink and slightly swollen from his kisses and she pressed a hand to them. “I have my reputation to consider,” she said steadily. “Fortune’s Folly is a small place and I cannot afford to lose my good name—” Dexter laughed. “You were not so careful of it last time and I would swear you still want me.” She bit her lip hard. “That is beside the point. There is more at stake now.” “You are no more than a hypocrite,” Dexter said brutally. “You always were concerned for nothing but outward show.” The anger licked through his blood. He was in danger of making the same mistakes all over again and being carried away by his lust. His self-restraint where Laura Cole was concerned seemed as wafer-thin as before. He wondered bitterly why it took him so long to learn. Sanity was clearing his mind now and with it came a mixture of fury and perplexity that he had even thought of pursuing her again. He was in Fortune’s Folly for work and also to swallow his pride and find a rich, conformable wife who would fit into his life without causing any trouble. He did not want to behave in a way that reminded him of his parents’ disastrous indiscretions. The thought of such emotional incontinence made him feel cold to the bones. He had put all that behind him. He grabbed his wet shirt and forced his feet into his soaking boots, wincing as the leather creaked in protest. “I won’t trouble you for those spare clothes,” he said. “I’ll walk back as I am.” “Like that? From my house?” Laura was clearly taken aback. It gave him the greatest pleasure to provoke her. “Indeed. If anyone gossips you may tell them that I have been fixing your medieval plumbing.” “You are absurd.” “And as I have said, you were always concerned with preserving public propriety when beneath the surface you broke every rule.” He gave her a brusque nod. “Good day, your grace.” “Mr. Anstruther.” Her voice halted him before he reached the door and he stopped, deploring the fact that even now a part of him wanted her to call him back, back into her arms, back into her bed. “I think it would be better,” she said, “if we avoided each other in future.” That was going to be the devil of a problem in a small village like Fortune’s Folly but Dexter was not going to argue. In fact he would do his utmost to oblige her. He wanted to keep out of her way and forget that anything had ever occurred between them though he knew it would be the devil’s own job to do so. “Of course,” he said. “It will be my pleasure.” This time he walked out on her without being invited to leave. Chapter Four HE HAD CHANGED. The Dexter Anstruther she had known before would never have spoken, acted or behaved like that. He had become a man who was hard, experienced and cynical. And she had taken her part in making him so. Laura, her soaking gown and underclothes changed for a clean, dry set, sat before her mirror combing the tangles out of her hair. Her body still hummed gently, frustratingly, with a pulse of thwarted desire. Her breasts felt heavy and full and her whole body was flushed with arousal. Woken from four years of celibacy, it was demanding satisfaction. With an uncharacteristic impatience, she slammed the comb down on the dressing table. Damn Dexter Anstruther! It would have been better if she had never met him. When first she had known him, Dexter had been sent to catch the notorious highwaywoman Glory and bring her to justice. For that reason alone Laura, who had ridden out on more than one occasion with the Glory Girls, had kept out of his way. Rumor whispered that Dexter was one of the shadowy Guardians, the men who worked for the Home Secretary to keep the country safe against threats to law and peace within its own borders. The war against Napoleon had made everyone acutely aware of the danger from abroad but equally important and equally secret was the threat of civil unrest. It seemed strange now to recall that when Dexter had first joined their house party at Cole Court she had barely noticed him as a man, except to register the fact that he was very handsome. That had been a fact that was difficult to miss, for he had dark, tawny, golden hair, sapphire-blue eyes and an impressive physique. All the housemaids had been in love with him and probably some of the footmen, too. His good looks had in fact initially made Laura wary, for she was familiar with being the plain one at the ball, the girl whom everyone overlooked. She would never in her wildest dreams have expected to draw the attention of a man who was as sinfully attractive, as utterly gorgeous, as Dexter Anstruther. But slowly and so subtly she was still not sure how it had happened, Laura had started to become aware of Dexter in a different way. He was thoughtful, kind and he listened. Laura, accustomed to being ignored by her husband, found that being the sole focus of Dexter’s attention was extremely seductive. She had allowed herself to spend time with him; she had fallen in love with him without even really noticing and once it had happened it was far too late to save her heart. She had struggled hard against her feelings. Her involvement with the Glory Girls was one secret she absolutely had to keep. And not only was she eight years Dexter’s senior, she was also a married woman, a duchess, and as far as everyone knew, a pillar of the community. There were endless reasons why her foolish passion for Dexter was doomed and so she had tried to ignore it, and him, as best she could. Then, one afternoon, Dexter had found her alone and distraught after Charles had betrayed and deserted her and she had lost one of her closest friends. Dexter had comforted her and she had turned to him absolutely. She did not know when comfort had turned to desire and desire to passion. It had ambushed her utterly, taking her into uncharted waters. But in the morning the fever had gone from her and she had seen her actions for what they really were. She had hidden her guilt and criminality from Dexter. Worse than that, she had been unfaithful to her husband, she had taken the virginity of a man eight years her junior; she had used him to ease her pain. For Laura, unfamiliar with sensual pleasure, the night had been unimaginably blissful. But it was still dreadfully wrong. And when Dexter had begged her to elope with him, to run away from Charles and leave all her unhappiness behind, she had known that although she found the idea dangerously appealing, it would be the worst thing that she could do. She could still see the expression on Dexter’s face when he had pleaded with her to go with him. He had looked eager and hopeful, with the kind of shining, new happiness about him that she remembered from when she, too, had been young. When she saw it, it made her feel every one of those eight years’ difference in their ages. She knew that if she took what he was offering she would ruin him forever. For a man of his age at the start of his career, with no money or connections, with nothing but a good name and integrity of spirit, to run away with a married duchess considerably older than he was himself, would be absolute disaster. The scandal would ruin him and he would never recover. She had sent him away. She had not done it gently. She had been deliberately cruel, for she judged that if she had explained her reasons he would have tried to override them and she would have been all too easily persuaded. She had hurt him and in the process she had broken her own heart as well as his. She had made him think her a faithless wanton. And now, four years later, she had had to send him away again still thinking she was a hypocrite and a whore. Laura got to her feet and took an anxious turn across the room. When she had sent Dexter away before she had thought that would be the end of the matter. She had never imagined that the outcome of that passionate encounter would be her beautiful, precious daughter, Harriet. It had taken her a long time to realize that she was pregnant. At first when she had missed her courses she had assumed that the misery and loss she had suffered had affected her cycle. She had been married to Charles for over ten barren years and during that time had gradually come to assume that there would be no children. Her childlessness had been a terrible grief to her, made all the more painful because she knew there was probably no cause for it other than the fact that her husband never came to her bed. When she had fallen pregnant with Hattie she had suffered no sickness in the mornings and had been out riding until her sixth month. Thinking back over that time, she wondered whether she had simply been denying her situation or had been so transfixed to find herself enceinte after all those years that she was afraid even to think about it in case it was all an illusion. Whatever the case, she said nothing until her friend Mari Falconer had challenged her gently about the pregnancy and then she had finally admitted to her oldest friend that the baby was not Charles’s child. Laura put her hands to her head for a brief moment and then allowed them to fall. Her pregnancy had been a thing so precious and so closely guarded that she was afraid that if anyone or anything should threaten her baby or her future happiness she would surely run quite mad. And then Charles had arrived and had done precisely that. He had sworn to take the child away from her as soon as it was born. He had shouted at her and hit her, pushing her down the stairs… Laura closed her eyes for a second to blot out the memory of that appalling scene. She told herself fiercely that she did not need to think about it now, or ever again. Charles was dead and his hatred could no longer touch either herself or Hattie. But she still felt unsettled and disturbed and she knew that the reason was Dexter. She had never imagined that he would come to Fortune’s Folly. She had never thought to see him again. Dexter could never be allowed to know about Hattie for if the truth ever came out her daughter would be branded a bastard and her life ruined forever. Laura felt cold even to think of it. She shuddered, feeling the goose bumps breaking out on her skin. She did not have any fears for herself or her own reputation if the truth were known; that mattered nothing compared to Hattie’s future. Nor did she believe that Dexter would ever deliberately hurt an innocent child, as Charles had threatened to do. But if Dexter knew Hattie was his daughter he might want some say in her upbringing. He might wish to acknowledge her openly. Infidelity and illegitimacy had made his family a laughingstock throughout his life. His parents’ offspring had borne the stigma of not knowing the truth of their lineage and she could not imagine Dexter would wish the same fate on his own children. He might suggest that Hattie be brought up with his own family. He might try to take Hattie away from her. A powerful wave of protectiveness swamped Laura. She would die before she relinquished her child. And she would do everything in her power to make sure that no rumor or whisper of scandal would ever taint Hattie’s future with her mother’s disgrace. So she could never tell Dexter about his daughter. Hattie had to be protected at all costs. She had to remain forever unquestionably and officially the offspring of the late Duke of Cole. For the past three years Laura’s sole purpose had been to shield and safeguard her child and that would not change now. Laura walked slowly through the connecting door that linked her bedchamber with her daughter’s room. Her sister-in-law, who had made sure that her children’s nursery was not only on a different floor but in a different wing of the house, had told her quite plainly that she was mad to spend so much time with Hattie. “You are storing up trouble for yourself in future,” she prophesied gloomily. “The child will grow up thinking it natural to spend time with you and will be forever hanging on your skirts. Best to get her a good nurse and then leave her upbringing to the servants.” Which, Laura thought, probably accounted for the dislike in which her niece and nephew seemed to hold their parents. She picked up the framed charcoal drawing of Hattie that stood on the chest of drawers and studied it for a moment. Hattie was smiling, all round pink cheeks, tiny rosebud mouth and tumbled black curls. She did not look like Dexter. She had Laura’s hazel eyes and Laura’s grandfather’s coloring, but apart from that Laura thought she resembled no one in particular. She was her own person. Laura’s heart eased slightly. Perhaps Dexter would not even recognize Hattie were he to see her in the village. Why should he, when she did not resemble him? Perhaps, Laura thought with a flash of bitterness, he would not believe Hattie to be his even if she did tell him. Since he thought Laura herself to be a faithless wanton he would think Hattie’s father could be one of any number of men. But even so, she could not risk it. She would not hide Hattie away, of course, for people would notice that and talk, but she would have to be very careful. She was so deep in her thoughts that she missed the sound of the front door opening and footsteps on the stair. A moment later the door of the room burst open and Hattie flung herself on Laura, a sticky, stripy piece of candy clutched in her hand. Judging by the way her cheeks were bulging, Laura suspected that the rest of the sweet—a rather large piece by the looks of it—was already in her mouth. She bent and scooped Hattie up in her arms. “Mama, Mama! Candy!” “So I see,” Laura said, smiling over her daughter’s curls at the nursemaid, who had followed Hattie up the stairs and was standing in the doorway. “Have you had fun, darling? I hope you were good for Rachel.” “Mr. Blount gave Lady Harriet some sweets, ma’am,” Rachel said. “I hope you do not mind. And Mrs. Morton gave her some lilac ribbons for her hair and a little scrap of lace to make a doll’s dress. Very generous, people are.” “Yes, they are.” Laura kissed Hattie’s bulging cheek and smoothed a hand over her soft curls. She knew most of the shopkeepers in Fortune’s Folly pitied her the lack of a husband and her straitened circumstances, but because they felt uncomfortable giving a duchess charity they would always slip Hattie presents instead. Almost all of Hattie’s clothes were made from off cuts from Mrs. Morton’s gown shop and Hattie was likely to develop a very sweet tooth as a result of the grocer’s generosity, for scarcely a day went past without him leaving a small bag of sweets for her, or a packet of biscuits or a new cake recipe he was apparently trying out. Mrs. Carrington, who acted as cook housekeeper for Laura these days, grumbled that she was quite capable of making her own cakes, thank you, but she said it quietly because she knew as well as everyone else that without the generosity of their neighbors the household would in all probability starve. “Mr. Wilson gave me two turnips,” Rachel said with a giggle. “He said Lady Harriet would enjoy making a lantern from one for Halloween and Mrs. Carrington can turn the other into soup.” “That sounds delicious,” Laura said, “though I do not know how you managed to carry everything home.” She smiled at Hattie. “Will you enjoy making a lantern, darling?” “Yes,” Hattie said, wriggling to be freed. Laura put her down and she turned her face hopefully toward Rachel. “ Can we make it now?” “Not now, milady,” Rachel said firmly. “It’s time for nuncheon.” “Don’t tell me,” Laura said resignedly. “Mr. Blount also gave you some hot-cross buns.” “And some oaten biscuits and strawberry jam,” Rachel said. “He said it would only go to waste if I did not take it.” She held out her hand to Hattie. “Come along, madam. Time to wash all that candy from your fingers.” “I can do it myself,” Hattie said with dignity, spurning her helping hand, and Laura smothered a smile. “Proper independent, she is,” Rachel said. “You mind, madam. She’ll be walking into the village all on her own one of these days if we give her half a chance. Strongminded, she is, the poppet.” Laura listened as Rachel took Hattie off to the closet to wash, her daughter chattering all the while about making the turnip lantern and wheedling a promise from Rachel that if she was a good girl they would go down to the water meadows to play. Laura listened with half an ear, tidying and folding Hattie’s clothes as she did and feeling a mixture of contentment and a strange poignancy that she could not quite place. Strong-minded, Rachel had said. Little Hattie, independent and bold and happy, with her ebony curls and her fearless nature…Pride and a kind of astonishment rose in Laura that she had produced such a miracle as her daughter, that she and Dexter together had created something so exquisite and extraordinary. She doubted she would ever stop feeling that sense of awe. Guilt stirred in her. Dexter was denied the pleasure of knowing his daughter and of seeing her growing up. She was denying him that right and she wished she did not have to do so, but she had no choice. Never for a single moment could she risk Hattie’s future, her happiness and her security. The echoing jangle of the doorbell broke her thoughts. “Hello?” A feminine voice wafted up the stairs to her. “Laura? Are you at home?” Glad of the distraction, Laura hurried down the stone stair and out into the hall. Carrington was nowhere to be seen. Yet again he had not heard the bell. Laura sighed. There was no point in bemoaning the shortcomings of either her butler or her housekeeper since she had deliberately kept them on to save them from an uncertain future. The health of both Mr. and Mrs. Carrington had been ruined in the last few years by the constant and excessive demands of the new Duchess of Cole and Laura, guilty that she had left her servants to Faye Cole’s mercy, had subsequently offered the Carringtons a new home. After a year, however, she was reflecting that it would have been better to employ servants to wait on them. Both Mr. and Mrs. Carrington were broken, shadows of their former selves. Miss Alice Lister, Laura’s neighbor from Spring House, a neat villa whose garden bordered Laura’s own, was standing in the hall and peering through the door of the drawing room. She had a straw bonnet on her corn-colored hair and was clad in an extremely pretty cream-and-yellow-striped muslin gown with matching pelisse. Laura liked Alice very much. Miss Lister had been ostracized by most of village society, especially those who were keenly aware of rank and status and were appalled that a woman reputed to be a former maidservant had come into money, bought herself a fine house and come to live amongst them. Such events went much against the natural order and the good ladies of Fortune’s Folly were not prepared to give Alice countenance. Then Laura had arrived, the biggest fish in the small pool of Fortune’s Folly, and she and Alice had become friends immediately. Laura liked Alice because she was neither servile nor ingratiating and she told things exactly as she saw them whether speaking to a duchess or a stable hand alike. Laura, surrounded by toadies for much of her life, found it refreshing. “I did knock,” Alice said. “I thought perhaps you might be down by the river this afternoon—” She stopped. “Oh! You have been in the river.” “How did you know?” Laura inquired. “You have a strand of pond weed in your hair. What happened?” Laura sighed. “I am not quite sure. I was in the rowing boat and I lost an oar, so I tried to paddle back with the remaining one but ended going in circles instead.” “Never try to paddle with only one oar,” Alice said. “It does not work.” “As I realize now. I grabbed at a branch and would have been able to steady myself, except that it broke and I drifted into the middle of the river and went over the weir.” Laura paused. Had she imagined that someone had given the boat a hefty push? She had seen nothing, for the sun had been in her eyes, but she had thought she had heard footsteps… No. That had to be pure imagination. She pulled herself together as Alice gave a gasp and clapped her hand to her mouth. “Laura, no! You were not injured?” “Fortunately not,” Laura said. “I should have jumped in and swum ashore but after I bumped my head I felt too sick.” She took a deep breath. “It was lucky that Mr. Anstruther was on hand to pull me out.” There—she had mentioned Dexter’s name with barely a pang of emotion and felt proud of herself. In a little while, possibly months but hopefully only days, she might even be able to think of him without that complicated mixture of guilt and longing. “Mr. Dexter Anstruther?” Alice said, eyes wide. “The mysterious gentleman who is staying at the Morris Clown Inn?” “Yes. He was fishing nearby.” “I thought so,” Alice said. “I passed him just as I arrived. He was wet and carrying several fish. That explains a great many questions I was asking myself.” “Such as?” “Why there was a pool of water on your front step and damp footprints in the hall for a start.” “You have a talent for investigation,” Laura said. She hoped that Alice’s powers of deduction did not extend as far as working out what she had been up to with Dexter Anstruther in the warming room. She hoped none of her feelings showed on her face. “I do.” A frown wrinkled Alice’s brow. “Mr. Anstruther is a little odd, do you not think?” Odd was not a word Laura would have used to describe Dexter. Wickedly handsome, sinfully tempting and very dangerous perhaps, but never odd… “Laura?” Alice had her head on one side and was looking curious. Laura gave herself a mental shake. “In what way is he odd?” she asked cautiously. Alice waved a hand about in a vague way. “Oh, I am not sure. I sometimes think that he behaves like an older man, for all that he can be no more than seven and twenty.” “He is only six and twenty, actually,” Laura said, before she could stop herself. “What do you mean, older?” “He seems very grave,” Alice said, “and responsible.” “He may seem that way,” Laura said, “but it was only a couple of years ago that he was spoken of as one of the most reckless libertines in London.” A fresh wave of guilt assailed her. She had a terrible fear that Dexter’s fall from grace had been her fault. “Though he was extremely responsible beforehand.” “Before what?” Alice’s bright gaze was penetrating. Before I took his virginity and ruined his character… Laura swallowed hard. “Before…um…Before he became a reckless libertine.” “So he was responsible before, and responsible after, and something happened in the middle that made him behave differently,” Alice said thoughtfully. “I wonder what that was?” “Yes, I wonder.” Laura moved a few of the ornaments on the dresser at random. Alice’s bright, intelligent gaze was fixed on her face. “Anyway, how do you know?” Laura’s confusion grew. “How do I know what?” “Mr. Anstruther’s age. How do you know he is only six and twenty?” “Because I know his mother,” Laura said, seeing that she needed to crush this line of conversation if she did not want to give away her feelings utterly. “We are of the same generation.” Alice was diverted, as Laura had hoped she would be. “Oh come now, Laura, that must be nonsense,” she said. “You cannot be much above thirty yourself!” “I am four and thirty to be precise, my child,” Laura said. She felt woefully irresponsible, for all her years. A bare thirty minutes before she had almost made love with Dexter Anstruther in her own drying room. How reckless and foolish—and, if she were honest, how utterly enjoyable—had that been? But Alice had not finished with the subject yet. She lowered her voice and glanced conspiratorially over her shoulder. “The on dit is that Mr. Anstruther works for the government, you know.” “There is no need to whisper,” Laura said. “Hattie and Rachel are upstairs and there is no one else about except Carrington and Mrs. Carrington, and they are as deaf as two posts.” “You don’t seem very interested,” Alice said, crestfallen. “The trouble with you, Laura, is that you are so perfectly reserved and composed. Nothing seems to ruffle your calm. I suppose it is the natural consequence of being a duchess.” “I am good at concealing my feelings,” Laura allowed. “That is the natural consequence of being a duchess.” She privately reflected that she had not been either reserved or composed in Dexter’s arms. Wanton and abandoned were more accurate words to describe her state. But then Dexter was the only one who had unlocked a wild and passionate sensuality in her that she had never imagined existed. She had known passion in other areas of her life—no one who rode as hard as she did or took up the cause of injustice as fiercely as she had done could consider herself to be truly meek and conventional—but she had never imagined that she could make love with such unrestrained ardor. With Charles the idea had been laughable. With Dexter it was a wild reality. But now for Hattie’s sake as well as her own she knew she must turn her back on Dexter and all that might once have been. She had to be the perfect dowager duchess once more, restrained and cool, gracious, a little distant and reserved. Violent passion was in the past. Alice had brightened again. “At any rate, that was not what I came to talk about. Are you going to offer me a cup of tea?” “I shall go and make it myself,” Laura said, moving toward the servants’ stair. “Is Mrs. Carrington having another of her bad days?” Alice asked sympathetically, trotting along beside her as they went down the stair and into the kitchen. “I fear so,” Laura said. “She was in so much pain that she could not lift the pans at breakfast, so I sent her back to bed with a hot brick.” “You should get some more servants,” Alice said, “competent ones. You cannot be forever making the tea yourself.” “I have Molly and Rachel, and they are perfect,” Laura pointed out. Molly was Rachel’s sister and acted as both maid of all work and Laura’s personal maid on the rare occasions she required it. Both girls were capable, good-humored and an asset to the household. “And then there is Bart to do the garden.” “Bart is so old and lame he can scarcely bend,” Alice pointed out. “You do the garden yourself, Laura. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. With the exception of Rachel and Molly you run a home for incapable servants here.” “Well, there is no reason why I shouldn’t make the tea myself,” Laura pointed out, a little defensively. She lifted the copper kettle and placed it on the hob. “There is no great mystery about making tea—or about cooking or dressing oneself, or growing vegetables, for that matter.” “But you are a duchess,” Alice said, in horrified tones. “It is not right.” Laura laughed. “I am a penniless dowager. And that is the marvelous thing. As a dowager duchess I can do as I wish. My relatives cannot interfere and tell me what to do—though they try—and I have no social obligations now that Henry and the dreaded Faye are Duke and Duchess of Cole. And after all, Queen Marie Antoinette played at being a milkmaid, did she not?” “And look what happened to her,” Alice said gloomily. “I have no intention of losing my head,” Laura said firmly, “either metaphorically or practically.” “I almost forgot—I have shocking news.” Alice leaned her chin on her hand and fixed Laura with her bright brown gaze. “There is uproar in the town. We are in the most tremendous fix and it is entirely my fault. You will remember that I refused Sir Montague Fortune’s offer of marriage in July?” “Of course,” Laura said, reaching for the tea caddy. “Apparently in revenge he has dug up some ancient law that entitles him to take half our fortunes,” Alice said. “Oh, Laura, all unmarried women in Fortune’s Folly have either to marry or give Sir Montague their money!” Laura put the caddy down slowly. “Surely you jest? That cannot possibly be legal. It’s iniquitous!” “Apparently it is legal.” Alice looked tragic. “Even if we all sold our property and left the village we could not escape because it applies to all single women living here now. So I am wondering whether I should marry him in order to save all the other ladies of Fortune’s Folly.” “I wouldn’t advise it,” Laura said, stifling a smile as she measured tea into the pot. “You refused Sir Montague for a reason, did you not?” “Yes. I don’t like him.” “Quite so. You would like him even less if you felt blackmailed into marrying him.” Laura took the singing kettle from the hob and added the boiling water to the pot. “Besides, I suspect that now Sir Montague has realized he can take half of the fortune of every woman in the village without matrimony, he will not settle for just one woman in wedded bliss.” “I suppose not.” Alice raised her eyes to Laura’s face. “What is to be done?” Laura reached the biscuit tin down from the shelf and pushed it toward her guest. “Try these—oaten biscuits from Mr. Blount.” She sighed. “Well, for my own part, Sir Monty will make very little money out of me, for I have nothing but this house and a pittance to keep it up. But that does not mean I wish to give any of it away and I can certainly help the rest of you if you would like me to.” She smiled reassuringly at Alice. “I will write to my lawyer at once for advice on countermeasures that we may take. Then we will rally the ladies of the village to oppose Sir Montague. There must be plenty of steps we can take to thwart him. A meeting at the circulating library within the next few days, perhaps…” She felt an unexpected rush of excitement. It was a small thing to be organizing a revolt against their grasping lord of the manor but it made her feel as though she was doing something active and worthwhile. For too long she had lacked a cause. Alice was looking at her with admiration. “How splendid you are, Laura! So practical! We will soon have Sir Montague retreating in disarray.” “That explains Mr. Anstruther’s presence in Fortune’s Folly,” Laura said, struck by a sudden thought. “He must be here to look for a rich wife.” She felt her temper bubble up as she thought about it. The nerve of Dexter Anstruther, coming to the village with the intention of finding a bride and propositioning her to be his mistress at the same time. And he had once been a man of principle. He had been right. He had changed. “The blackguard!” she said, her indignation growing. “Everyone knows he is as poor as a church mouse. He is no more than a fortune hunter!” “He is not the only one,” Alice said. “I was tripping over gentlemen down from London on my way to visit you. I could scarcely make my way across the market square without being importuned by some adventurer or other.” “Well,” Laura said, stirring the teapot so viciously that the liquid inside splashed onto the table. “They will find that the ladies of Fortune’s Folly are no easy target. The arrogance! To think that they can come here with their town bronze and sweep some heiress or other to the altar.” She reached for the cups with a violence that put her ancient china at risk. So Dexter Anstruther had come to Fortune’s Folly hunting a rich heiress. Well, she would show him his mistake. He would rue the day he had come seeking a wealthy wife. She would see he did. Chapter Five DEXTER WAS HOLDING in his hand a letter from the Dowager Duchess of Cole. It reminded him of the Laura Cole he had known four years before, who had been the perfect duchess, elegant and gracious. Dear Mr. Anstruther, it read, thank you very much for the service rendered to me earlier today when you rescued me from the river… Dexter sighed. Laura Cole was, as ever, presenting the perfect facade of propriety. But what had he expected it to say? Dear Mr. Anstruther, thank you very much for your offer to be my lover on the basis of mutual convenience and pleasure. Having given the matter my consideration, I fear I must decline. Although I took you to my bed in the past, I no longer have any romantic interest in you… On calm and mature reflection, Dexter felt that trying to seduce Laura had not been the most intelligent thing that he could have done. He needed to remember that he was in Fortune’s Folly to work first and foremost, and also to find a rich wife. Laura Cole was a penniless widow and unsuitable to boot. The fact that he wanted her in his bed now as much as ever was distracting and irrational and he needed to ignore it, particularly since she had made her disdain for him so very clear. Even so, the urge to seek her out again, the need to see her, speak to her, simply be near her, plagued him and would not go away. It felt like a burr against his skin. He shrugged irritably. “Are we to go to the assembly or not?” Miles Vickery drawled, lounging back in the chair. “Or are you to sit here rereading that note all evening?” Miles had arrived an hour before with fresh instructions from Lord Liverpool and the express intention of finding himself an heiress as swiftly as possible. News of Sir Montague’s dastardly plan to reinstate the Dames’ Tax had spread like wildfire around the town even as the place filled up with adventurers from London. With a sigh, Dexter folded Laura’s note and placed it in his inside pocket. “I beg your pardon. I had no notion you were in such a hurry.” “Need to find myself a rich wife,” Miles pointed out. “Thought you were in the market for a bride, too.” “Since the ladies have just heard that they are to lose half their fortunes if they do not enter wedlock within a year, I doubt we’ll get a very warm welcome,” Dexter said dryly. “We’ll persuade them,” Miles said. “Seduce them to our point of view if we must. Compromising a lady is a very effective way to secure her fortune.” “And a very dishonorable one,” Dexter said. Sometimes he thought that where women were concerned, Miles had neither scruples nor principles. Not that he could afford the scruples and principles that beset him. Miles had also brought with him a letter from Dexter’s sister Annabelle. Written in Belle’s loopy,extravagant hand, it had reminded Dexter of all the reasons why he needed to marry money—if reminder was needed. Belle had written, Mama was in her cups last night, and she let slip to us that you had gone to Yorkshire not only for the fishing, dear Dexter, but also to offer yourself on the Altar of Matrimony for all our sakes! Such Noble Sacrifice! You are indeed the Best of Brothers! There was much more in the same vein about how much Belle was looking forward to her come-out ball the following year and how Charley and Roland had lost their shirts at the gambling tables the previous night, and how Mama had an utterly beautiful new peacock-blue morning gown. Dexter shuddered to read the list of all their extravagances. There was also a short note from his father’s ward, Caroline Wakefield, whom everyone knew to be another of the Anstruther Collection masquerading under the false respectability of wardship. Caro had written crossly, Dear Dexter, pray do not regard Belle’s nonsense. The truth is that if we have no money we shall all have to economize and in the last resort find employment. Belle will not expire over the loss of a season, and your mama would have more to spend on gowns if she did not spend so much on gin. If you choose to marry for money for our sakes then you are a fool. Dexter smiled ruefully and put the letters in his case. Caro had grown up with no illusions about her place in the world and a far more practical approach to financial matters than his other siblings. He tried to imagine blond featherbrained Belle going out to earn a living—and failed miserably. “I should stay here and work,” he said, gesturing to Lord Liverpool’s letter, “and so should you. Liverpool mentions that there is someone who may be able to help us in the matter of Warren Sampson and that you will effect an introduction—” “Later,” Miles said, grabbing his arm and hustling him out of the room. “Anyway, this is work, Dexter. You need to listen to the gossip and to meet the suspects. What better way than by mingling with all the fortune hunters and heiresses at the assembly?” They went out into the market square. It was a blustery night with the wind rising and the moon dodging behind ragged clouds. The Morris Clown Inn, a sprawling coaching inn that dated back to medieval times, was on the southern corner of the square, opposite the town’s small but nicely appointed assembly rooms. Fortune’s Folly had been little more than a hamlet until fifty years before when Sir Monty’s grandfather had taken advantage of the fact that the natural springs around the village were thought to be medicinal. He had created a spa, laid out a small park, built an assembly room and a circulating library and had watched Fortune’s Folly grow into an exclusive watering place. There were new houses and shops, and in the summer the town attracted visitors from Harrogate and York. Now that it was the marriage mart of England it attracted a fair amount of riffraff, as well. “Oh dear,” Mr. Argyle, the master of ceremonies, said unhappily, on seeing them. “Not two more gentlemen. Disastrous!” He threw open the doors to the assembly rooms and Dexter immediately saw the problem. The place was packed with men in evening dress and there was scarcely a lady to be seen. “All the respectable visitors have left town,” Mr. Argyle said. “They say that Fortune’s Folly is full of fortune-hunting rogues who lower the tone of the place.” “They’re not mistaken,” Miles said. He caught Dexter’s arm. “Look, there’s that dashed libertine Jasper Deech. He’s been hanging out for a rich wife for years.” “So have you,” Dexter pointed out. “So have I.” “That’s different.” Miles looked affronted. “Deech is very unsavory.” He paused. “It’s not impossible that Deech could be the one engaged in criminal activities. I have often wondered where his money comes from. And that is Warren Sampson over there—” He gestured toward a middle-aged, florid-looking man who was rocking back on his heels as he surveyed the room. “I cannot believe that he seeks a wife here. He is not in need of a fortune.” “Men like that always want to increase their capital,” Dexter said dryly. “I thought he was already married?” “He buried his second wife last year so perhaps he is looking for a replacement,” Miles said. “Speaking of disagreeable characters, is that not Stephen Armitage over there, as well, fawning over Laura Cole? It certainly isn’t marriage he’s after there! He tried to fix his interest with her in London before she was even out of mourning. Frightfully bad form.” Dexter spun around so quickly that he almost dislodged three glasses of lemonade from a tray carried by one of the servants. He apologized and tried to right the drinks before they splashed all over his and Miles’s shoes. It had not occurred to him that Laura would be present that evening but now he wondered why he had made that assumption. The main purpose of the assemblies might be for the young ladies of the neighborhood to meet eligible men, but it was also an opportunity for everyone in the community to meet and mingle and talk, and tonight there was much to talk about. “Laura is in looks tonight,” Miles said, still watching the dowager duchess with deep appreciation. “I always thought she was far prettier than anyone gave credit and now that she is rid of that louse of a husband she positively blooms—” He broke off on a splutter as Dexter took him by the neck cloth and pulled tight. “You are mighty familiar, bandying about her grace’s name with such ease,” Dexter said through his teeth. The unbearable thought that Miles might be another of Laura’s lovers took hold in his mind and could not be dislodged, no matter how he tried. Miles was a rake of the first order and his conquests were legendary. Dexter knew that it should not matter to him if Laura Cole was simply another name on the list but the fury that clouded his mind was as sudden and uncontrollable as it was unexpected and illogical. Miles, Stephen Armitage, and no doubt a dozen or more others… “Steady, old fellow,” Miles protested, flailing his arms about and wheezing for breath, “Laura is my cousin! Known her since we were children. Why shouldn’t I use her name?” Cousin. The word pierced the rage that seemed to envelope Dexter’s mind like a blanketing fog. Laura was Miles’s cousin, not his mistress. His grip eased slightly. “Your cousin?” Miles’s eyes bulged. “That’s what I said. Remember when we were in London I told you that I had a cousin living here? And what is it to you, anyway, Dexter?” Dexter released him slowly. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought that the Duchess of Devonshire was your cousin.” “She is.” Miles looked affronted. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Dexter? No reason why you should know all the ramifications of my family tree, is there? I have cousins all over the Ton, not that it’s any of your business.” “Good evening, Miles. Mr. Anstruther…” Dexter and Miles both jumped. Laura was standing before them in a glorious dark blue silk dress embroidered with tiny diamonds. It was cut discreetly low over the swell of her breasts yet it seemed to Dexter that the very modesty of the design and the tight swathing of the material served only to emphasize the sheer sensuousness of Laura’s curves. Whenever she moved, whenever she breathed, the gown shimmered with the radiance of a thousand tiny stars. She looked exquisite. He felt hot just looking at her. Laura’s hair was swept up into a matching diamond clip. It shone with rich golden and chestnut lights and it seemed to beg to be unpinned and touched. Dexter felt his breathing constrict as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs. He stood still and looked at her and absorbed what felt like a physical blow. His habitual cool rationality had never seemed so far away. He could not move. He could not speak. “Is there some kind of problem?” Laura asked, looking pointedly at where Dexter’s hands were still resting on Miles’s shoulders. “Not at all,” Dexter said, coming to himself and smoothing Miles’s jacket down hastily. “Lord Vickery merely had a small malfunction with his wardrobe.” “Next time you can call my tailor rather than attempting to assist yourself,” Miles said, glaring at him. He adjusted the set of his jacket and bowed to Laura, taking her hand and pressing a kiss on it. “How are you, Laura?” he asked, sounding suspiciously to Dexter as though he was putting extra emphasis on his use of her name. “It is good to see you again. You look divine tonight. That must be one of Madame Hortense’s creations, I think.” “I thought,” Dexter said sharply, unable to help himself, “that her grace was a relative of yours, Miles?” “Not a close one,” Miles said, smiling wolfishly at Laura. “Thank you for the compliment, Miles.” Laura’s smile held a sparkle of mischief. “But you need not waste your time on me when there are other richer and more susceptible ladies about.” She stood gracefully on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Even so, it is a pleasure to see you, too.” “You are as proper as always,” Miles said, smiling at her. “And as impervious to your flattery,” Laura responded, her lips tilting into an irresistible answering smile. “Pray remember I am a dowager duchess, Miles, not a green girl to fall for your compliments.” Miles released her hand with every sign of reluctance. Dexter felt his temper bristle. “You are the most seductive dowager I have ever known,” Miles said, “and trust me, I have known many and in every way imaginable.” “Enough, Miles,” Laura said, her strict tone giving Dexter a most inappropriate frisson of sexual excitement. “I do not wish to know about your conquests, nor do I have any intention of joining their ranks.” “Oh very well…” Miles sighed. “I hope Hattie is doing well,” he said, reverting to a more cousinly tone. “I have brought some gifts for her from Mama. If I might call tomorrow…” Dexter smiled. The image of an utter rake like Miles traveling from London with a child’s toys in his luggage was irresistible. Miles shot him a dark look. “Of course,” Laura said. Dexter felt rather than saw her cast a quick look in his direction. Her tone was slightly strained. “Hattie will be delighted to see you.” “Capital,” Miles said. Laura turned to Dexter and her smile was several degrees cooler than the one she had given her cousin. It felt as though she was only addressing him because socially she had to. Dexter felt excluded. He did not like it. The urge to make her take notice of him, to force a response from her, was strong. This ice maiden could not have been more different from the sensuous woman he had held in his arms only a few hours before. He caught her eye and for a second the awareness shimmered between them again. The noise from the crowd faded and it was just him and Laura looking at one another. He tried to force his gaze away from her and failed signally to do so. Miles cleared his throat loudly and they both jumped. “I wondered what had brought you to Fortune’s Folly, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said icily, covering her embarrassment with an arctic chill that Dexter thought might freeze him to the marrow. “I assume that both you and Miles are here because of Sir Montague’s outrageous edict? It is the only thing that I can think of that would bring two such ineligible gentlemen as yourselves to the north.” “A man has to do what he must,” Miles said gloomily, “no matter how repugnant it may seem.” “What an admirable approach to marriage, Miles,” Laura said. She was laughing. “And you, Mr. Anstruther—” Once again her tone had chilled as she turned to Dexter. “Do you hold the same sentiments? Your mama has made no secret of the fact that she wishes you to seek a rich and conformable wife.” She sounded derisive, as though Dexter were tied to his mother’s apron strings. “Dexter needs to try harder to find a girl to suit him,” Miles said, grinning maliciously at Dexter. “He’s too damned—sorry, dashed—particular.” “Possibly you cannot find a suitable bride because most young ladies have the wit not to be conformable these days,” Laura said. She threw Dexter a mocking look. “Is that what you want, Mr. Anstruther? A henwit?” What Dexter wanted was to respond to Laura Cole’s provocation by shaking her—or possibly kissing her senseless. He felt alarmingly heated, as though his clothes were too tight and were smothering him. He wanted to break out of their restrictions with a roar and grab Laura and carry her off. He wanted to forget that his life was governed by sense and order these days and be decidedly disordered and irrational. “And what of your own matrimonial prospects, your grace?” he inquired smoothly, clamping down on instincts that were becoming more ungovernable by the moment. “You are, after all, a single woman and a resident of Fortune’s Folly. As such you fulfill all the criteria for Sir Montague’s tax. Are you resigned to handing over half of your fortune to him?” Laura laughed. “I most certainly am not, Mr. Anstruther! I have no intention of doing so. But with so small a fortune of my own I imagine that I am a negligible part of Sir Montague’s plan.” “I doubt,” Dexter said, “that Sir Montague sees any sum of money as negligible, your grace.” “Well, he won’t get his hands on mine,” Laura snapped. “Then you will marry to avoid the tax?” Dexter enjoyed the flash of anger he had provoked in Laura’s eyes. “That is even less likely than that I would willingly hand over my minuscule fortune, Mr. Anstruther,” she said. “I have had one husband and have no wish for a second.” Dexter could well believe that having finally got rid of the ghastly Charles, Laura would not wish to compromise her freedom again. And why should she, when widows could manage their lovers as they pleased as long as they showed a little discretion? The thought did nothing to soothe his aggravation. “I am fascinated to know how you plan to solve this dilemma,” he said. “It is marry or pay, is it not?” He raised his brows. “Are you not trapped, your grace? Sir Montague’s edict has the weight of the law behind it, distasteful as it may be. Surely you cannot intend to break that law? You, a dowager duchess and pillar of the community?” For a moment he thought he saw a hint of amusement in Laura’s face before she veiled her expression again. “The law can be opposed in the courts,” she said frostily. “Ah, I see.” Dexter’s smile broadened. “You intend to spend a fortune you do not possess on lawyers to thwart Sir Montague?” “It is the principle of the matter that counts,” Laura said. “And you are such a principled person.” Dexter felt a stab of anger at her hypocrisy. “As are you, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said, her contemptuous gaze sweeping the room full of debutantes and making her meaning explicitly clear. “An excellent way to save time—combining your search for a bride and a mistress in one place!” As the intensity of their exchange had increased so had they drawn closer together and now Dexter realized that they were almost touching. He could see all the little flecks of gold in Laura’s hazel eyes and the shadow of each individual eyelash against her skin. The curve of her cheek would fit so neatly into the caress of his palm, just as her lips had fitted his as though they had been made for that very purpose. He wanted to kiss her again with all the abandonment he had felt earlier. As soon as he thought it he ached for it. Both of them had forgotten Miles, who was watching this interchange with eyebrows raised. “Excuse me,” he murmured, “I can see that you do not need me here. I think I shall seek out the card room.” Dexter saw the shock in Laura’s eyes as she realized how far she had let their exchange go. She wrenched her attention from him. One of her gloved hands crept up to her throat. He could see that she was shaking slightly. The diamonds on her bodice shimmered with each unsteady breath she took and he felt the same shocking uncertainty sweep through him. He had lost himself, forgotten everything in the potency of that moment with her. A crash and the babble of voices cut across the hum of noise in the room and both of them turned with relief to see that Sir Montague Fortune had come into the ballroom with his brother, Tom, and had been the immediate recipient of a glass of lemonade full in the face. The perpetrator of this outrage was an extremely pretty young lady who looked barely out of the schoolroom. Tom Fortune, a wicked-looking young man who possessed all the humor that his brother lacked, was laughing as he shook the stray drops of liquid from his coat. “Monty!” the debutante shrieked. “How dare you plot to steal my money, you great oaf? I’ll see you pay for this!” “Have you met Lady Elizabeth Scarlet, Sir Montague’s half sister?” Laura inquired. “Her mother was married first to Sir Montague’s father and then after his death to the Earl of Scarlet. Lizzie is Sir Montague’s ward now that her parents are both dead. He has, naturally enough, upset her with his money-grabbing plan. They have a somewhat volatile relationship.” “I would never have guessed,” Dexter said. He shook his head disapprovingly. “I should think Sir Montague deserves half her fortune in return for having to put up with such a hoyden as a sister.” Laura tutted. “What a stuffed shirt you sound, Mr. Anstruther, six and twenty going on six and seventy. Clearly Lady Elizabeth is one you will need to cross off your list of eligible females. I see what Miles means when he claims you are too particular.” Dexter looked at her suspiciously. “What makes you think that I would have a list, your grace?” he asked. Laura’s hazel eyes sparkled with malicious amusement. “It is the sort of thing you would do. Groundwork, preparation, research…” She waved a dismissive hand. “Those are your trademarks, are they not, Mr. Anstruther? Of course you would have a list. You are the sort of man who thinks he has everything organized only to see it spiral spectacularly and inexplicably out of control.” Her appraisal was so uncannily accurate that Dexter was silenced for a moment. They both watched as a servant rushed out with a cloth for Sir Montague to mop his face and another to clean up the pools of lemonade on the floor. “Surely you cannot condone Lady Elizabeth’s actions?” Dexter said. “They hardly accord with the idea of public propriety that you yourself pretend to embrace so heartily.” Laura gave him an unfriendly look. “You are correct, of course,” she said. “I do not condone the throwing of lemonade. It can stain wooden floors very badly.” She watched Sir Montague retire from the room, dabbing ineffectually at his face and clothing with the large white napkin, and sighed. “Retreating in disarray,” she remarked. “If only the war could be won as easily as this first battle.” Suddenly she turned fully to face him. “If you think to find your innocent little bride here in Fortune’s Folly, you should think again, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said. She tapped her closed fan in the palm of her gloved hand in a gesture that betrayed her irritation. “It would be a mistake.” Dexter moved closer to her. She seemed uncomfortable with his proximity and tried to move away but the press of the crowd in the assembly rooms was great now, pushing them together. Her body brushed his, the rub of her skirts sensuous against his thigh. Dexter could feel the heat of her through the thin silk and feel also the tiny quiver that racked her as their bodies touched. It incited a jolt of lust straight through him, a molten hunger sufficient to banish all thoughts of logic and sense and conjure visions of tangled drapes and of Laura’s pale nakedness in the moonlight. “I am fascinated to discover that you take such an interest in my wedding plans, your grace,” he said softly. The pink color stained Laura’s cheeks with both anger and reluctant arousal. “I have no interest in either you or your plans,” she said sharply, stepping back as the crowd shifted a little. “I speak only to warn you, Mr. Anstruther. We want no fortune hunters here.” “And you are certain,” Dexter said, “that you have no personal concern in my case?” Laura laughed shortly. “You have a remarkably good opinion of yourself, Mr. Anstruther. Why should I care? I did not seek you out this evening. I do not look for the company of a man hypocritical enough to censure me for my behavior and then adhere to a double standard himself.” She flicked her fan angrily. “You are just like all the rest, are you not, Mr. Anstruther? As I said earlier, you seek a biddable wife and a complaisant mistress simultaneously.” Dexter laughed. “No one,” he said politely, “could call you complaisant, your grace.” “No one will call me your mistress, either!” Laura snapped, her hazel eyes narrowing disdainfully. “And as for the biddable wife, I suggest you forget her, too, and leave Yorkshire at once. I am persuaded that you are far better suited to London. Besides—” she gave her fan another angry swish “—you will have a deal of trouble finding a lady willing to entertain your suit if you put fishing before your bride, as you seem inclined to do. Surely you are aware that real men do not fish?” Dexter gave her a look that brought the hot blood surging back into her face. “I have had no complaints, madam,” he said. “You were the one who rejected a real man earlier because you could not deal with him.” He saw her eyes widen with shock at this outrageous and deliberate provocation. “Why, you—” She raised her hand and his fingers closed tightly about her wrist. “Surely you would not strike me in public?” His tone was soft and mocking. He drew her resisting body closer to his, feeling the heat in her and the tension and the anger. His own body was taut; the need for her pounding in his veins, destroying all good sense or cool thought. “What scandalous behavior that would be from the perfect Dowager Duchess of Cole,” he said. “Are you willing to smash that public facade, your grace, or shall I do it for you?” For a moment they stared deep into each other’s eyes and he saw the fury in the depths of hers, and also the shadow of fear that he might just do as he threatened and kiss her here, now, in front of the assembled crowds. He imagined what it would be like to bend her back like a bow against his encircling arm, to take that tempting mouth with his, to drink from her until he was finally sated. Not the actions of a man seeking a conformable wife, perhaps, but very definitely those of a man driven mad with lust by a wanton. Laura wrenched her wrist from his grasp and took a step back. Her face was flushed as pink as a blown rose and her eyes were bright. “You forget yourself, Mr. Anstruther,” she said. “Where is your self-control?” She smoothed her skirts down with a quick, nervous gesture and Dexter felt a savage satisfaction to see her hands shaking slightly. “I came over in the first place only to see Miles,” she said quietly. “Next time I find you standing beside him, I shall move on.” “So you say,” Dexter said, “but your cousin is long gone—” he nodded across the room to where Miles could be seen in the doorway to the refreshment room, engaging Alice Lister in conversation “—yet you are still here with me in spite of your suggestion that we avoid one another.” Laura chewed her lush lower lip. “That can be easily remedied. Good evening, Mr. Anstruther. I hope you will return home soon. You belong in London where your feckless, libertine habits will be more appreciated.” She turned sharply on her heel and walked away from him and Dexter took a deep breath and allowed the tension to ease from his body. The blood still drummed through his veins with an insistent lustful beat but he felt chilled, as well. “Your feckless libertine habits…” He was more like his father than he had thought, more like him than he wanted to be. He barely recognized himself when he was with Laura. He lost control and his need for her seemed to distort all else. He watched as Sir Jasper Deech slithered across to ambush Laura on her way to the door. Lord Armitage hovered in the wings, waiting for an opportunity to cut in on the pair of them. Tom Fortune actually blew her a kiss across the ballroom. Dexter’s temper tightened to think that all those men probably viewed Laura as a widow who might provide the sort of amatory entertainments that would ease the tedium of courting a virginal heiress. Perhaps they imagined that they might woo a debutante during the day and sport with a widow at night. Perhaps she might welcome their advances. The fact that he knew it should not matter to him just made it matter all the more. “Feckless libertine…” Laura’s voice was like a mocking whisper in Dexter’s mind. He clenched his fists. Hell and the devil. He had come to Fortune’s Folly with the simple aim of investigating a case for Lord Liverpool and finding an heiress bride if he could. How had matters become so complicated so quickly? He had no desire for any of the insipid misses who flocked the ballroom and an all-too-strong desire for the Dowager Duchess of Cole. But indulging in a liaison with Laura was impossible. Besides, it was the type of thing that he, Dexter Anstruther, simply did not do these days. Losing his head, kissing Laura, burning to make love to her—these were the actions of a previous life. They were not the behavior of the responsible, principled man who sought nothing more than a well-ordered existence and a biddable bride. He saw Lord Armitage lean close to leer down Laura’s gown under the guise of kissing her hand. He felt a primal and possessive fury almost swallow him whole. Was he to call out every last libertine in Fortune’s Folly? Because if they laid a finger on Laura Cole, that was exactly what he was afraid he would do and that would not be the action of a rational man. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar, trying to loosen it a little. He had no idea what was making him think like this. It was utterly out of character. Hell, he was out of control already. And for a man who prided himself on his sound judgment it was inexplicable. He had no idea where it would end. LAURA SURREPTITIOUSLY PRESSED her hands together as she walked away across the ballroom. Her palms felt hot within her evening gloves. Her whole body felt strangely sensitive, her skin prickling and a curl of excitement as well as a barb of anger still deep in her stomach. The impulse to turn round and look back at Dexter Anstruther was so strong that she could barely resist it. What on earth was wrong with her? As Duchess of Cole she had entertained princes and dignitaries. She had not enjoyed it but the point was that she had fulfilled her role with grace and charm. She had never allowed any man to shake her composure. Dexter could get under her skin with the slightest word, undermine her with the smallest touch. His presence was like a prickle in the blood, aggravating, provocative, impossible to ignore. She could not bear it. It tormented her. She had sworn to keep away from him and yet he had been right—she had sought his company deliberately and there was no point in pretending otherwise. It was foolish, it was dangerous and it felt irresistible. She rubbed her wrist where he had held her. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers on her skin and felt an echo of that touch in the hot silken coil of desire in her belly. She wanted to turn around and grab Dexter. She wanted to drag him from the ballroom and take him to her bed and make love to him until they were both exhausted and the torment was soothed at last. She had felt like that from the very first moment she had seen him that evening. She had pretended barely to notice him but it had been precisely that—a pretense. He had looked very smooth and elegant in his black evening coat and pristine white linen, his tawny fair hair cut in a Brutus crop—she imagined that a longer style would demonstrate too little order and restraint—and the planes of his face harder and leaner than she remembered. And yet despite the outward control there was something about Dexter that she recognized instinctively because it was in her, too. It was the wildness beneath the surface, the danger and the power that no amount of elegant black superfine could subdue. Dexter might be determined to impose discipline on his life because of the chaos of his family background but there was a passion in him strong enough to shatter any barriers. He was denying his true self. She understood him, and that made her feel a treacherous affinity with him. But that affinity was illusory. He thought her heartless for the way she had treated him in the past and she would allow him to continue to believe it because it enabled her to keep her secrets safe from him. She needed to remember Hattie and that it was essential to protect her. She could not risk exposure of her daughter’s secret. Keeping Dexter out of her life was an absolute necessity. She should be finding eligible females for him and throwing them at his feet so that she would be free of his troubling presence in her life. But the idea of Dexter finding a conformable wife turned a knife in her. She felt damnably bad-tempered to imagine it. It did nothing to raise her spirits when she saw the new Duke of Cole, her cousin by marriage, and his wife, Faye, shepherding their daughter Lydia through the crowds in the ballroom. Faye Cole had the unfortunate appearance of a farmer presenting a prize heifer at market, encouraging her daughter along with little shooing motions of her hands, smiling flirtatiously at every gentleman in sight and pushing Lydia forward to meet them. Lydia was two and twenty now, and very definitely considered an old maid, and Laura realized that Faye must be taking advantage of the Dames’ Tax to find her daughter a husband at last. The new duke and duchess did not live in Fortune’s Folly, but Cole Court was certainly close enough to take advantage of all the suitors flocking to the village. And Lydia, tricked out in unbecoming pink satin, looked as miserable as sin at the prospect. Laura watched as the Coles paused to return the greetings of Warren Sampson, an occurrence that struck her as odd since Faye Cole was the sort of snob who would normally cut a cit dead. Sampson was fulsomely flattering to Lydia, which made the poor girl blush even more uncomfortably. Then Henry Cole’s eye fell on Laura herself and he hailed her with surprising enthusiasm. “Cousin Laura!” Henry kissed her hand with heavy gallantry. Faye was a great deal less affectionate and gave her a tight little nod. Her cold gaze itemized Laura’s appearance with pursed lips and narrowed gaze, assessing the gown and jewels as though placing a cost on each. Laura suspected that Faye already knew the gems were paste and was merely judging how good a counterfeit they were. “I trust we shall see plenty of you, cousin, during our stay in Fortune’s Folly,” Henry said, and Faye’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Thank you, cousin Henry, but I do not go much into society,” Laura said. “Which is quite as it should be,” Faye snapped. “Dowagers should neither be seen nor heard?” Laura inquired sweetly, and saw Miss Lydia Cole stifle a smile. Then Lydia’s gaze fell on Dexter Anstruther and her face lit up, making her look pretty and animated. Laura felt a pang of raw jealousy spike her inside. Dexter and Lydia had met four years before at Cole Court and had seemed to enjoy one another’s company. Laura knew that if Dexter genuinely wished to find a conformable bride he could do a lot worse than Lydia Cole. And Henry and Faye were so desperate to see her settled now that they would probably accept a man with an old family name but no fortune. Laura knew it would be a good match for both of them. The fact that she felt sick with envy to think of Lydia and Dexter together was something she would have to keep to herself. Her ungovernable feelings were her own problem. A tide of panic rose within her as she realized that if Dexter and Lydia married it would bring him into the Cole family and therefore closer to his own daughter. Except that she seldom saw Faye and Henry socially, of course, and they had never showed any interest whatsoever in Hattie. That was the way it would have to stay, Laura thought. But it was damnably awkward for in the small world of the Ton people were always falling over distant relations and it was most unlikely she could hide Hattie from Charles’s family forever. She sighed as she felt the web of deceit weave a little tighter about her. It was starting to be a tangled web indeed and one that taunted her with a lifetime of emptiness. “I will leave you to renew your acquaintance with Mr. Anstruther,” she said wearily. She had seen how Faye’s face had sharpened into interest to have an eligible gentleman in her sights. “I am sure that he will be delighted to see you again.” “He is extremely handsome, but he has no money, has he?” Faye said thoughtfully, sizing Dexter up like a horse trader. “Still, that should make him grateful to secure a duke’s daughter in marriage.” “Mama!” Lydia gasped, turning bright red at her mother’s barefaced gall. “What?” Faye looked impatient. “There is no need to be missish, Lyddy. We all know why we are here, so you had better give him some encouragement.” Laura shot Lydia a sympathetic glance as the poor girl looked as though she was about to bolt from the ballroom. “Yes, Mama,” Lydia said, in a stifled whisper. As Laura went out Faye was already dragging Lydia across to accost Dexter whilst Henry watched with the calculating expression of a man working out how much the wedding was going to cost him. Laura saw Dexter take Lydia’s hand and bow over it and the same shocking spear of jealousy pierced her to the core like a physical pain. When she reached the door she could not prevent herself from looking back. Dexter was leading Lydia into the set that was forming for a country-dance. He did not look at Laura. It seemed he had already forgotten her. LYDIA COLE WAS an observant girl. She had already noticed that Dexter Anstruther, though pretending to be utterly indifferent to Laura, had watched her covertly all the way out of the ballroom. She had felt the tension in his body as he led her into the country-dance. She had even noticed that although Dexter was making perfectly pleasant conversation with her, part of his mind was preoccupied with something—or someone—completely different. She was not the main focus of his attention. In truth, she barely had his attention at all. She was hugely relieved. Dexter Anstruther, with his tawny golden hair, his deep blue eyes, his commanding physique and authoritative presence, scared her to death. He was far too handsome, far too clever and generally far too overwhelming for her. Lydia understood her mother’s absolute determination to marry her off. She also knew that Dexter was looking for a rich wife. It should have been the perfect, convenient combination. Except that it was not, for she was sure that Dexter’s feelings were already engaged elsewhere and she…Well, she had formed a tendre for a totally unsuitable man. She was almost certain that she had fallen in love at first sight. She glanced over at Faye and sighed. The duchess had the instinct of a major predator where her daughter’s marriage prospects were concerned and was watching Lydia with a mixture of smugness and vague threat as though she was about to pounce on Dexter and carry him off to announce the banns immediately. Matters, Lydia thought, might well become complicated. She had to ensure that she did not end up being bullied into marrying Dexter and she had to try to cure herself of her hopeless passion for another gentleman. She hoped she had sufficient will to succeed. She was not sure that she did. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/nicola-cornick/confessions-of-a-duchess-39772349/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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